Covenant
by mysweetone
Summary: Canon/AU. Edith suffers the consequences of her relationship with Michael, succumbing to propriety in a marriage of obligation two years after being jilted by Anthony.
1. Chapter 1

"So, you will?"

"Of course, Lord Grantham."

"Then we shan't delay any longer than necessary; this solution really appears to be the only way for her."

"Are you certain she'll go through with it—after all that's happened, or the father's rights—"

"Yes, yes—unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, she's learned a terrible lesson from all of this. He's out of the picture, it seems."

"In London then for the ceremony?"

"Yes, she's there with my sister right now—and will be until you arrive. Everything will be quieter that way. We'll be there before you, of course."

"I suppose I'll see you all then in a few short weeks with the proper licenses."

"Yes—and, Anthony, thank you."

* * *

Edith stood staring in the mirror, a veil and simple dress donned to cover and conceal her condition. She exhaled and felt a tear escape and she brushed it aside quickly with her gloved finger.

"It'll be all right, darling." Cora stood to the side of her. The sympathetic frown failed to warm or reassure either of them given the circumstances.

"Why did he agree to this? I don't understand how he could—"

"I think he's doing it for the right reasons, Edith, really—"

"And what are those reasons, Mama? Because of this?" Edith gestured and pulled the dress tighter to reveal the slight curve of her belly. "He didn't want me before—"

"Edith, there were other concerns at that point that…affected him; I still stand by the belief that he didn't do it to hurt you, but truly wanted what was best for you."

"Doesn't make it any less painful or humiliating—shouldn't I be suspicious of him now? I haven't seen him since that day and now, here we are in some sort of disturbing rehash of it all except for my condition this time and—"

"Your father thought it best, dear."

"Well, why would he want damaged—"

"Please don't. Do not say it aloud. Let's just get through this, all right?"

Edith ducked her head in a nod, but kept her eyes on the floor and her head bowed. "All right." Her whisper was one of utter defeat and self-reproach.

* * *

Anthony stood in morning coat with Stewart by his side, his pulse lit, face flushed, and throat parched. He tried to breathe, to swallow, and to think without relentlessly replaying this exact scene from two years prior… and he waited.

Robert's voice gently gave his consent and, before Anthony turned, he felt her gloved hand slide into the crook of his arm per the requisite decorum of the occasion, and he flinched, risked a glance down at her only to see the side of her veil and the copper curls underneath…no smile, no greeting…only the silence of obligation.

As the vows were said in twin monotones, both avoided the agony of eye contact, their two hearts clenched—each unaware of the true cause of the other's torment, both believing the worst of the other's feelings, of the situation itself—knowledge of the past and present, of feelings long-buried and no longer pertinent—nor trusted—remained stilled and hushed, expressions eclipsed between them and giving away nothing but the sober realization that after almost nine years this was not the wedding either had dreamt of—not in 1914, nor 1920, nor in the present moment…

The pronouncement made, the idea of a kiss to close the ceremony scorned, Edith simply turned to walk up the aisle whether Anthony stayed beside her in stride or not.

* * *

Unable to form words—the right words—both sat mute and the ride to Anthony's townhouse proved uncomfortably silent—for all present, including Stewart.

Once they arrived, the newly married couple crossed the threshold barely brushing sleeves and Anthony finally found his voice and spoke to the walls around them rather than face her. "Anything you wish or need—"

"Not a thing; I need nothing right now except directions for my room to take my leave…please."

Stammering, the gentleman said, "Of course—just—just there on the left when you arrive upstairs. Clara prepared it for you especially—"

But Edith already began her climb up the staircase and his words faded to nothingness…

* * *

A/N: A tiny intro to a story whirling around in my brain... Thank you for reading/reviewing.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony remained in his downstairs library in his townhouse; Edith's door stood closed the entire evening.

"Milady?"

Silence…the stifling of sobs…silence again. "Y-y-yes?"

"I have dinner for you—or just tea, if you prefer?"

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"But milady—"

"Please, Clara—leave me be."

Clara sighed quietly, and then set the tray down in front of Edith's door, insisting quietly: "If you change your mind, milady, I've left the tray here for you. I'll be downstairs should you need anything else." The young woman waited for a response, but none came.

* * *

"Sir?"

Anthony looked up from papers at his desk, the brandy glass almost empty for the second time that evening and a weary expression shadowing his features in the lamplight. "Yes, Clara?"

"She refused the tray, Sir, but I left it there for her if she does become hungry."

The gentleman frowned; his eyes pricking with emotion. "I see. Thank you, Clara—"

"I tried, Sir, I did, but—"

Anthony held up his hand and shook his head quickly, anxious to reassure the young woman the fault was not hers. "It's not you, Clara; it's me and everything else, I'm afraid." Anthony's gaze found the flames in the hearth and his mind settled on the past; Clara saw the grimace of pain as she studied him and his attempt to find the right words. "She's married to a man she can't stand, left by the man she loves and hasn't heard from, and—" He stopped himself, looked up quickly to Clara and realized he'd said too much, the brandy clearly affecting his self-discipline. "Well, thank you for leaving it for her. I pray she'll change her mind later."

"If there's anything else, Sir, please—"

"Thank you, Clara. Please just—anything Lady Edith needs or wants—anything at all," he said, his tone a direct order and a plea at once.

* * *

Edith felt hunger pangs—blamed the growing child inside of her for forcing her to yield to them—and gave in, gingerly opening the door and looking around for any sign of him or his staff, before taking the tray inside her room to eat.

The room in the townhouse was darkening due to the late evening hours. Edith ate in her bed, savoring the delicious lamb, potatoes, and bread that Clara had brought to her. She studied the room then, finally opening her eyes to the fact that Clara—and Edith presumed a whole host of others—had gone to a good deal of trouble preparing the room—freshly painted, brand-new bedclothes and duvet, a beautiful new wardrobe and furniture set including an ornate nightstand in the finest carved wood. Either the wood was brand-new or had been completely refinished; Edith couldn't decide. All she kept thinking was how, during the engagement, Anthony admitted most rooms at Locksley and here in London had been neglected and needed modernizing… _Was this wedding the impetus for the changes?_ She wondered. The book case on the far wall stood beautifully and, as she squinted to see them as she ate, she recognized the volumes were leather-bound works and as she knew the titles—knew that _he _knew she loved them—she felt certain _he _had placed them there on purpose. _Does he care that much?_ A gramophone, too, had been placed near the window, which Edith found strange at first. When she finished eating, she placed the tray outside and closed the door once more before she walked over to the music table to find a collection of recordings…operas, classical, and, to her surprise, newer jazz… _This couldn't have been Clara_, Edith thought. When Edith found the Puccini and Rossini, along with the Gluck, Bizet, Chopin, Beethoven, and then…she wept… _How could he? How could he do this? _

In a fury, she picked up the tray from outside her door and stalked down the stairs to put it in the kitchen herself, shocking Clara at her sudden appearance. Then, she turned and left, in search of the library where she knew he would be.

* * *

Anthony, feeling the initial effects of the haze of a third double-brandy, unused to the feeling of overindulging in this particular form of self-medication, tried to stand when she threw the door open, but he had to steady himself first with his good hand on the desk.

"Why did you do this?"

"I'm sorry—?" He stared open-mouthed as she approached him, closing the distance with each seething syllable.

"This? The wedding and now this—why is my—no, _that_ room filled with books and music and—" Her anger gave way to a flood of tears, which only served to fuel her rage at that moment. Edith, on a subconscious level, knew she'd become irrational and, given her condition, felt no desire to try to stem it.

"I only thought to make you feel at home—" He tried, but only saw her becoming further unhinged with sobs as she continued walking towards him and gesturing in the air with her hands. "Lady Edith, I didn't mean to—"

"I don't even know why you're here—why you'd do all of this—marry me now? Why? I went off and found a younger man—an able-bodied man who wanted me—just like you said I should—and hasn't that been wonderful for me?" Edith was close to him now, standing in front of him, and before he could back away, she'd grasped his shirt with her fingers, fisting it tightly as she looked up to him with those vast, dark eyes. In a strangled, spiteful whisper, she pierced him without remorse, "Where is Michael? You're here and he's not—he promised—just like you and you both—!" She took a breath and her head fell to his chest for a moment as she wept again and his hand began to reach for her uncertainly, slowly so as to offer solace, but she pushed him away before he touched her, a new shudder of temper and violence flaring as her voice shattered the quiet. "I wasn't good enough then, so—what? Too young? Too naïve? Look now, Anthony, I'm older and still single and used up already. So, now? Now that I'm damaged goods—a _ruined woman—_am I good enough for you now? Now, that I absolutely have no choice because of my family—now that I _need _you to save me for propriety's sake—"

"How could—I don't—I would never see you as damaged goods! You're not _ruined_—you're…well, I never saw you as anything other than—"

"And I never saw you as an old cripple!" Her cry filled the room and left him utterly speechless; he winced at the anguish he saw in her features as the words spilled out uncontrollably. "But that didn't stop you from leaving me there all alone—did it? It didn't stop you from throwing everything away—it didn't stop you from throwing us away…I loved you! And you didn't l—" With that, she lost herself, turned and blindly stumbled on her gown for a moment as she wiped away tears with the backs of her hands, before hurrying to find her way back to the corridor and up the stairs, leaving him alone in a familiar place: the solitude of his library with never-healed wounds gaping open once more and his guilt and conflicting emotions consuming him until, collapsing in front of the fire, he felt the heat from the hearth on his cheeks as he blinked back the blurring mist in his eyes…

* * *

Stewart found Anthony in the morning, startled awake by a nightmare in his favorite chair by the fire.

"Stewart?"

"Lady Edith refused breakfast, Sir."

"I see—I'll speak to her. I need to see her, anyway. We have an appointment this morning, first thing," he said, rising and reaching immediately for his temple as he stood still before attempting a step. "Stewart, I need a powder for this headache, and a shower and shave, please."

"Of course, Sir."

"And Stewart?"

"Yes?"

"No more brandy in here, please."

Without questions and only a nod, Stewart said, "Of course, Sir."

* * *

Anthony dressed in his dark tweed suit and stood in the mirror for a moment, rehearsing his words, only to hang his head in defeat. He left, running his hand through his hair as he made strides towards her door.

Clearing his throat, he knocked gently on her door. "Lady Edith?"

"Leave me alone, please," she said, her tone laced with sadness.

"My apologies, but I can't. We have an important appointment this morning and you must—"

"Make my excuses, please. I've no desire to—"

"You will. I must insist—"

The door opened then and she stood there still in her gown from the ceremony—now wrinkled and torn, in at least one place, he could see near her feet. He surveyed her appearance even as she did the same, both realizing neither had really slept after the previous night's confrontation. Anthony noted her beautiful pale skin, her brown eyes reddened, puffy and swollen from tears, her tousled and disheveled curls… Edith's eyes took in his textured, too-large suit for his slimmer frame and dark sling, the scent of his soap and lotion, his blonde hair and clouded-blue eyes… Edith looked away quickly.

"Lady Edith—"

"I'm your wife. You of all people don't have to use my title."

"I realize there are…I know we need to talk further—"

"You're assuming we—"

"I'm assuming nothing and simply hoping for—"

Edith's eyes narrowed. "Hoping for what, Anthony?"

Anthony gulped, his eyes unable to meet hers—_A life again? Love—the worshipful love I've—we've?—wanted for years? A real marriage? Forgiveness, at least? _None of those words formed. "Peace…between us, I suppose, for this time together. Can't we have that?"

She considered the words for a moment, finally determining silently the word for all she felt—and had felt in the past months: empty. Conceding for the moment, she met his eyes, "Where are we going?"

Anthony breathed. "My solicitor's office; there are papers for us to sign together."

"Why?"

"You're my legally wedded wife now and, as such, for said legal reasons, you will become my sole beneficiary; we cannot postpone it." He emphasized his point with a creased brow and turned to walk away.

"And what if I don't want your estate?"

Anthony turned and, for the first time in the years since she'd known him, he almost glared at her and in a whisper replied, "My dear, it doesn't matter what you want in this instance—I'm leaving this world knowing that you and your baby are provided for in _every _possible way and that means ensuring that my holdings—all of them—are at your disposal for whatever you need or want and I am using today's appointment to explain and educate you on what that means for _yours and your child's sake_." Recognizing his albeit tender loss of temper and the look of surprise on her face of being taken to task, he immediately straightened himself and backed away from her. "I'm sorry—I just… Be ready to depart in an hour, please."

Edith, still in shock at his desperate assertiveness and almost smiling at the way the man could even his temper and soften his tone rather than yell as Michael had done or as her father did in his most frustrating moments…she marveled at Anthony Strallan, and he was completely unaware, having already turned to descend the stairs. In the minute that followed, though, Edith realized the weight of his words… _I'm leaving this world knowing_… She covered her mouth and muted her own scream at the possibility of those words—the meaning they held. Gathering herself, she lunged after him to stop him on the stairs and caught his shoulder, startling him as he turned to her standing three steps below her, almost at her height and she held on with a hand on either shoulder, her body leaning into him as she tried to stop her momentum and her face descending impossibly close to his own.

"Anthony?"

"What? What is it?" His good arm took her elbow as he registered the alarm she exhibited and the sudden blanching of her cheeks.

"Anthony—you're not—you can't be—" She swallowed the words, breathless. "Are you ill? I mean, well, your urgency in this appointment this morning—are you…are you…dying?" She finally let the words out, only to be met with a lingering silence as his eyes drifted down, slowly blinking, and then met her own as she stared intently at him…

In the dim light of the staircase, Edith could barely see the expression on his face. The words he whispered, though, echoed between the walls on either side of them, "One would first have to be living, sweet one…"

As his words remained suspended in the stillness, he stepped backwards and let her hands slide from his shoulders before glancing away from her, continuing downstairs, and leaving her there with his words from years prior reverberating within…_You've given me back my life_…and the tears she believed she'd exhausted in the previous weeks and certainly the day and night before…fell again…

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading and for the reviews and follows and favorites! Wow! Please know how very much I appreciate them! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

Though I've got a rough map ahead, there ere are quite a few possibilities still running around my brain, and I'm looking forward to getting more of this story going; I do hope you enjoy the journey, too... Thank you again!


	3. Chapter 3

Edith bathed and donned a dark skirt and light green blouse for the appointment with the solicitor. Despite showing a slight curve in her figure—she was nearly four months along—the clothing veiled it perfectly and her overcoat for the rainy morning would help as well. Looking at herself in the mirror, powdering her nose, she thought of Anthony—the reasons she was here and the way he'd tried to—what? Welcome her? His immediate handling of his estate to fully benefit her…the man, in one decision and with no hesitation, secured her entire life—not just her reputation with a wedding, but her entire life—and that of a child that wasn't even his. Edith wasn't ignorant; she knew the success of Anthony's estate and ventured to guess that his wealth exceeded even her own estimations of what she knew about the figures two years ago. Just because he could afford to do it didn't mean he wanted to—didn't mean he still—if he'd ever—truly loved her?… What had provoked him to re-enter her life?

* * *

"These papers allow you the rights to all of Sir Anthony's real estate holdings, his accounts, and his other investments available to be liquidated at his request, and any future acquisitions the two of you obtain together as a married couple," James Clary explained.

Edith appeared overwhelmed as her eyes perused the figures painstakingly detailed on the stack of papers now askew in front of her on the wide oak desk.

Clary watched Edith warily then from behind his thin glass frames and glanced with a worried countenance to Anthony before placing a different paper in front of her. "This next agreement—" He paused and looked again to Anthony.

The older gentleman frowned, but nodded curtly, clearly distressed with conflicting feelings.

"This next agreement allows you—"

Anthony leaned and swiftly grabbed the paper before Edith could see it and tore it up then. "No—never mind. My apologies, James. You're right in your legal knowledge, but I won't insult her with this one. Everything is already secured appropriately with the other documents."

"What?" Edith asked. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"I'll explain later," Anthony said, rising from his chair. "Everything is signed and we're taken care of then?"

James nodded, relieved that Anthony had stepped in at the final moment to save him the embarrassment of the last paper for Lady Edith. The two men shook hands and Edith followed her husband out of the office and back to the waiting car.

"What was that about?" Edith inquired, refusing to give up and utterly confused by the entire transaction.

Anthony allowed her entry into the back of the car before folding himself in beside her. He didn't look at her, only stared out the window as the car began to proceed down the rainy street.

"Anthony?"

"It's something that doesn't need to be in writing." His terse reply without even turning to face her felt like a slap to her cheek.

"Well, what is it? I feel like we both signed our lives away as it is, given the number of times I had to—"

Anthony turned, his features drawn, and his eyes darkened—dead even. "You will inherit everything of mine whether you remain faithful to me or not; those papers simply guaranteed such. That said, you should know that I will be…an honorable husband to you…but I understand if you wish to live separately or seek out someone—"

Edith scoffed. "I see, so you promise to be honorable, but don't expect as much from me—that I'm not fit to be an honorable wife—"

"That is not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?"

"I simply wished for you to be reassured that there would be no way legally for anyone—distant relation or not—to take your inheritance from you, no matter what happens or what choices you make in this marriage—you could never do anything to endanger your future or void what we did or, for that matter, change my mind about it...even—should you—find someone…or choose otherwise…"

"Take a lover? Live with someone who actually loves me?"

The voice in his head screamed that she now already lived with someone who loved her, but he shut it out, only nodding his assent at her understanding. "You may do what you wish, yes."

Edith's gaze dropped then to the floor of the motor, wishing to hide the welling of her tears from him, before she shifted in her seat to turn away from him. Silence ensued until Anthony thought he heard her crying, but they'd arrived at the townhouse and Edith effectively left him standing there in the rain as she ran inside and gave him no chance to say more, to clarify or explain…for it seemed too late—was it? To confess everything he held inside…and had for years…that nothing had changed, but he knew he felt it in vain…

* * *

Luncheon was separate, as each tried to reconcile what had occurred that morning and both found themselves in their solitude recalling the engagement and failed wedding, the time together just the two of them perfect, but tainted in the end by the decision he'd made for them both; the two of them in isolation analyzed each word from the past twenty-four hours, each look, with neither closer to understanding the other.

Anthony knew he'd hurt her, but like so many other times, couldn't find the right words. Knowing he would fail yet again, he approached her door and knocked. "Edith?"

"What is it?"

"I'd like you to join me for tea, please, in the library."

A quiet moment and feet padding to the door until it opened. "Why?"

"I just—" Anthony fidgeted and shifted his weight. "I think we need to talk."

Edith peered at him—in plain button-down shirt and his sling removed so that both arms were by his sides; his hair still slightly astray from the rainy and windblown morning—witnessed in his features a weary gaze, something close to anxiety or desperation. Her left brow rose, skeptical. "We don't seem to be very good at that anymore."

The words landed a direct and crushing blow, a pain in his chest and a constricting in his throat …if nothing else, they'd always been good talking together, laughing, enjoying one another's company, and now…time and the choices they'd made left them with…nothing. Lost together, with far too much distance between them.

"As you wish then," he murmured and began his retreat back downstairs.

* * *

Anthony sat at his desk, his tea untouched. A flurry of doors opening and closing and then Stewart entered.

"Sir, Lady Edith left of her own accord; she said she would be back later."

"Thank you, Stewart." Before his loyal valet could leave, Anthony looked up. "Um, Stewart?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Do you believe her?"

"I'm sorry, Sir?"

Anthony's lips formed a half frown and a sad smile of understanding simultaneously. "Do you really believe she'll be back?"

Stewart walked closer to Anthony and gently answered, "Yes, Sir, I do believe she'll be back." He observed his master carefully, the signs all too clear to him. "Sir, are you all right?"

"Of course, Stewart," he said, not lifting his eyes to Stewart's.

"Sir?"

When Anthony did look from the paper on his desk up to his man, Stewart saw the glistening eyes and the tremors in his hand. "I've hurt her too deeply, Stewart. There's no going back or apology to be made; all of the papers were signed this morning and she's going to be well taken care of…"

Stewart's heart dropped. "Sir—"

"Please leave me alone, Stewart; I'm just going to work for a while," Anthony said, his eyes now boring into Stewart's.

The younger man didn't move. "No, Sir. With all due respect, I'm not leaving you in here alone right now."

"I'm fine—"

"You will be, Sir, but you're not right now."

Anthony opened the drawer at his desk and stared at the pistol, his service revolver from the war; his trembling hand hovered just above it, but he couldn't quite bring himself to touch it.

Stewart moved slowly and intentionally to the desk and reached for it before Anthony did and Anthony looked up at him and whispered, "Wouldn't it be easier this way for her? If I was simply out of the way and she could have the life she imagined—with whomever she wanted..." His head dropped to his chest and his voice broke through amidst the tears.

Neither man heard the entry door open. Hearing the voices just inside the library, Edith stopped, eavesdropping in the corridor as best she could but only catching bits of the soft-spoken conversation…

"I've wanted to so many times, Stewart—to just be done and end it-"

"I know, Sir-"

"…And now she's mine—legally—and I've lost her…I have to stop hurting her; I wanted to save her from this dreadful situation, but I've trapped her instead and I never deserved her to begin with—"

"Sir, how would it look if she were just married and her new husband took his life?"

In the corridor, Edith gasped, her hand covering her mouth as she shut her eyes and tried to breathe.

"How would that make things better for her?" Stewart's voice remained even. Sadly, he'd seen this desperation and self-loathing erupt before.

"I'm a coward, Stewart."

"No, you're not, Sir." Wishing to segue and take a different tack, Stewart asked, "Have you talked to her?"

"She wouldn't want to hear it…just excuses, really."

Stewart tilted his head. "Sir, forgive me, but I've been in service to you since before the war and, may I speak openly now?"

"You've just stopped me from killing myself—twice now—Stewart, I'm certain I owe it to you to allow you to speak openly—please."

"You married her just a day ago; I don't think love is one of the excuses you're thinking of telling her. You two haven't really talked—"

"She won't talk to me; she can't stand the sight of me and who can blame her after the way I humiliated her? I invited her to come downstairs for tea, but she went out instead—"

Unable to stand it longer and hearing her cue, Edith spoke up. "Hello. I'm back." Appearing in the doorway with a newspaper in her hand, she glanced from one man to the other, a cautious, solemn expression on her face trying to give away nothing of what she'd heard. "Tea, please?"

Stewart moved quickly to conceal the pistol he still held and politely smiled at Lady Edith. "Of course, milady."

Anthony sat numb for a moment, but then gestured for her to take a seat on the couch in front of the hearth. Edith never took her eyes from him—measuring the man, seeing him as though for the first time, she sat and waited for him to sit. Anthony took the opposite end and tried to regain a sense of calm, his eyes searching about the room.

"We didn't quite finish our discussion last night," he offered.

Edith almost smiled and said, "More like a tirade on my part, I think. I'm sorry."

"Deservedly so, perhaps." He, too, came very near an apologetic smile before his tone dropped and emotion forced him to look away. "Please, Edith, forgive me…"

Edith, though, interpreted the sudden change in expression to guilt—for a different reason. "For what? Did my father put you up to this? He didn't give you a choice in marrying me, did he?"

Anthony shook his head emphatically, tried to fathom the implication. "No, no—he only told me your situation and I—Edith—" For the first time in their short marriage, Anthony reached for her, closed the distance between them and cupped her chin to turn her face to his with his still-unsteady hand. "Edith, I _wanted _this; I could have told him no and I didn't. I've always wanted y—" Realizing his misstep in the near-admission, not wanting to muddy the situation further, his hand dropped and he backed away.

Edith let the final words sink in for a minute, observed him withdraw from her, and finally asked, "You did want me? It wasn't that I loved you and you didn't—Anthony?"

"I wanted what was best for you and I wasn't that man and your family disapproved as well, which—"

"Disapproved?"

"Your father…the night before…my age and situation—he didn't give his blessing, not in so many words, and your grandmother's constant remarks reminding me how foolish I was to believe in us—it wasn't right for me to tie you to me."

Edith listened and the flash of recollection from that day resounded…Anthony's words to Robert at the altar, _"It's wrong—you know it's wrong, you said so…"_

Anthony's words interrupted her thoughts. "I only want you to be happy, Edith; that's all I've ever wanted."

Edith, however, barely heard him; his words—though tempered with an obvious, beseeching love never actually named his feelings—failing to dawn on her as she chastised herself for all she'd missed during the engagement, all that taunted and drove him away, but when she looked down and felt her body, the growing protrusion reminding her of the choices she'd made since that day, she stood abruptly. "I forgive you—if that's what you wanted then…I loved you then, but I was confused and didn't understand all that occurred and, I suppose now I do. I do forgive you, though; I think I actually forgave you long ago, Anthony."

Anthony heard the past tense in her phrasing…the confession and confirmation of the very loss of the love that he'd feared—and never quite fully believed real before—evident now in her tone and with each word as she continued.

"Before it might have been that we loved one another, or so I thought, but I see now it's as it should be—you're kind enough to marry me out of duty—thank you—thank you for your honesty."

"No, Edith—wait—" Anthony objected.

Edith walked out, her hands up in protest, without another word, her inability to forgive herself for the mistakes she'd made with Michael corrosively eating away every ounce of self-worth she'd managed to hold onto and hearing once again the voice inside relegating her to the damaged goods she knew she was now…the compromised person she was certain Anthony felt obligated to help through some attempt at redemption, but one he couldn't possibly love…

Before he could muster a further response, still confused by her brusque, almost-automatic demeanor, Anthony stood frozen and watched the door shut behind her.

Stewart appeared a minute later with the tea, but found Anthony alone staring out the window.

"Sir, shall I take this up to Lady Edith?"

"Yes, please…" Anthony moved then to his desk. "A moment though, Stewart."

Stewart waited, watched Anthony pen a note at his desk and place it on the tray.

"Everything all right, Sir?"

"I suppose—she…she loves Michael now, it seems. Perhaps, when—or if—he returns…I don't know about any of that situation. I do see that anything she felt for me died long ago, but—Stewart—for our sake now, given his absence and our marriage, I suppose we have to make the best of things. I'll do anything in my power..." He swore it softly, even as he bowed his head in defeat.

"Did you tell her, Sir?"

Anthony shut his eyes. "No, not in so many words. It wouldn't matter now, not if she's wanting him still. Please deliver this note to her, Stewart."

"Of course, Sir."

* * *

Stewart knocked and, when no answer came, he announced the tea tray was outside of her door and left her alone in her room.

Edith waited until Stewart's footfalls disappeared and then took the tray. Edith immediately plucked Anthony's note beside the cakes and read it…

_Lady Edith—I'm sorry to broach the subject, but we're expected to honeymoon and, while I know it will be out of obligation, I'd like to make it as pleasant a trip as possible. Please let me know what you wish for a destination and the length of stay and I will make the arrangements for our departure. Anthony_

Edith read the note a second time…anything she wished… The note wilted in her hands as she acknowledged that what she'd wished—with the man she'd first loved and wanted to be with—could never be… She traced the letters he'd written before writing her words of reply just below them.

_Paris—two weeks. Separate rooms, perhaps a suite of them for appearances, of course_. _I'm sorry you have to endure this. I'm sorry for it all… __Edith_

Edith read her response and, for a moment, she considered a postscript…_I still love you_…_I wish things were different…_ She knew it was futile if Anthony didn't love her, couldn't want her now. She folded the note and placed it back on the tray.

When Anthony received her response, the paper still slightly damp to his touch, he felt Stewart's eyes on him and looked up.

"We'll depart the day after tomorrow for Paris," Anthony confirmed.

"Perhaps another talk would help, Sir, before you embark on the journey together?"

"Perhaps…"

Stewart started to walk away and take his leave, but stopped and turned on his heel. "Perhaps, Sir, as I've found on occasion, one needs to spell out exactly what should be said before...saying it..."

Anthony's eyes narrowed. "A letter, you mean?"

"You're fond of writing, I know...perhaps spelling it out in words would be helpful in bringing peace, Sir-whether you end up sharing it or not-though I hope you do. "

"Stewart, I know we go back a dozen years or more and you've been very loyal to me, particularly during my recovery. I do trust you. Thank you, Stewart. I'll consider it-writing to her, as you say."

* * *

Edith perused the volumes on the shelves in the bookcase of her room and found one of the most well-worn books…Keats… Settled back on her bed, she thumbed through the pages and quickly saw Anthony's cursive pen strokes on most of them…and then, at "The Day is Gone…" she caught her name and wedged the page quickly with her index finger to go back to it. This particular leaf within the volume was well-loved, prints and discoloration apparent around the verse. Bits of the lines were underscored by the black ink of his pen and then dates written on the page: August 4, 1914 underlined and then…December, 1919…May, 1920… Edith squinted then to read his note in the margin: _She's faded from my life, my sweet one...her sweet voice and warmth and I'm done in this world. I've let her go knowing she deserves more, knowing she can't possibly feel the same for me...she's better off now, free… How I love her—more than I knew it was possible to love and I fear an everlasting one—it's been almost a year now and she haunts me still, my heart still gone…_

The book slipped from her fingers at the revelation, the twofold epiphany: he doubted her, lacked the faith in her to believe she knew enough to truly love him, even as her family and his own insecurities broke him… Edith lay back on the bed, her head on the pillow and thought of her own words—him as a project, his perception of her naiveté and willingness to be his caretaker, loving him because of his dependence, his ruined arm—her own misguided attentions that seemed to have undermined him. _Could he still love me this deeply, as he did before? _Her hand went to her growing belly—_too late…_ "Too late—far too late now, you fool," she admonished. "Each too ruined for the other, yet..." Her eyes burning as she closed them to arrest the tears that threatened…

* * *

A/N: The poem is John Keats' "The Day is Gone, and all its Sweets are Gone!"


	4. Chapter 4

Edith woke, after a restless sleep, to the sound of a door closing gently down the hall. Glancing at the night stand clock, she squinted at the tiny hands indicating the hour before sunrise. She tossed the covers off and rubbed her temples; the gnawing hunger of the early morning pushed her to dress simply in sweater and skirt before she proceeded downstairs after seeing no one in the hall, padding softly with an air of discretion.

When she walked towards the kitchen, the light was already on, with Anthony standing and sipping a cup of coffee, staring out the window into the still-sunless morning. She studied him, his slight stoop, the curve of his shoulders, and realized he hadn't changed clothes since seeing her hours before in the library—same dark trousers and white button-down only now concealed with a dark shawl-neck wool jumper, his arm free of the sling—his attire a muted testament to his sleepless night, though Edith needed no evidence.

Anthony drifted off late in the night, but the majority of the twilight hours had been dedicated to a letter to Edith as Stewart had suggested. Started, crumpled, and then begun again…only to be tossed into the embers in a quiet temper. Ill and disgusted with his failures, he'd retired to his room only to re-emerge in less than an hour for coffee and the deserted darkest hours of the morning.

Edith cleared her throat and Anthony started. "Didn't mean to alarm you."

Turning, noting her tired appearance, hurting for her yet again, he assured her, "Quite all right—are you well?"

Edith sighed. "Not really. It seems I'm starving to the point of nausea at this hour each morning. I only sought to find something before breakfast."

"Clara left some cakes for you here," Anthony said, reaching for a small tin.

"Left them?" Edith walked to him and took a biscuit from the tin.

Anthony gave no reply, but left the tin open for her to take another.

After finishing the first, she lightly dabbed her lips. "You told her to leave them for me?"

"I didn't want you to go without nourishment—and from what I know that hunger can occur most any time, I believe. Is that right?"

Edith nodded and ate the second. Sensing she'd prefer something to drink with her early morning snack, Anthony poured her a cup of coffee. "Thank you," she said between bites. "What are you doing up this early, may I ask?"

"A walk."

"A walk? Hmmm, but that doesn't answer _why _you're up this early."

Anthony lifted his chin slightly. "I don't sleep, not really," he whispered.

Edith sipped her coffee, discerned his drawn features and the salt and dark blonde shadow of a beard on his face. "I know."

A minute passed as Edith finished a third biscuit and swallowed a bit more coffee, both absorbed in the moment and one another's presence…still uncertain…

"A walk? Before the sunrise?"

"Yes, I prefer the early morning, particularly here in the city."

Edith tapped the cup absently. "Me, too."

"Would you—would you care to join me then?" Anthony felt the words slip and brought the coffee cup to his lips to conceal any reaction as she considered the question.

Edith sat pensive, drank more of her coffee, and looked back up to him. She promptly stared again into her now-empty cup. The churning she felt inside was, she knew, not entirely the baby this time. "Yes." Taking a breath, she followed it quickly with, "I could use some air."

"Of course—shall we?"

They made their way to the door and Edith grabbed her coat. The two stepped out together, the darkness breaking and fog still settled over the city. Edith tried to keep stride with him and by the second block, she inadvertently reached for his elbow and the softness of the wool caused her to lean into him and slow their pace.

"Are you all right?" Anthony asked, halting them at the street corner.

"Yes, it's just I tend to tire more easily these days."

Anthony saw the flush of her cheeks. "We should return."

"No, no—let's just sit—here at the bench. I'm fine."

They sat next to one another. Edith drew a deep breath and exhaled, measuring her words as she turned to Anthony. "Why haven't you asked about him?"

"Sorry?"

"About Michael? Why haven't you asked about any of this?"

"It's really none of my—"

"I'm carrying his child, Anthony, and you have now essentially pledged to be its father—don't you care anything at all about who the real father is or what happened to him?"

Anthony looked at her then, but only waited.

"He's in Germany working to obtain a divorce; I received two letters. He said he loves me and wishes to marry me as soon as the papers come through. I wrote him of my…condition and he said he would try to expedite the process, but...I wrote again and no further reply came."

Anthony's chest tightened and his hand involuntarily fisted by his side, his disdain barely hidden as he registered Edith's defeated and heartsick tone.

"That was almost three months ago."

The sun broke through the dense cloud cover, the fog dissipating slowly. Edith waited, tentative.

"Anthony?"

"Yes?"

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

_Do you love him? _"Do you expect to hear from him still?"

"I know we're leaving tomorrow for Paris, but if it's all right, I'd like to stop by the offices later today to see if he's left any word; I can sort of disguise it by checking on a new assignment or some such. I've been checking often, just in case."

Anthony nodded. "Of course. Later today, then, if you wish." _And if he's there? If he's written? If he's free to have you, will I lose you then…? _

"Thank you."

"Would you like me to—no, no I suppose you wouldn't want me to accompany—"

"No," Edith assured him with a reticent smile. "Thank you though."

* * *

Breakfast and luncheon were eaten together, but in silence. Anthony wished for no discord between them and each potential verbalization went unrealized, declared a failure in his thoughts before his mouth could form the words. Edith focused on her errand to the office and Michael—thoughts forlorn, disgusted, and yet vacillating back to hopeful…but for what? A divorce from Anthony and remarriage to her baby's father? A happy family? After what he'd done—leaving her with no word for months? Edith chastised herself—scoffing at the situation as one word resounded…_trust_, indeed…

When Edith returned from _The Sketch _offices to the townhouse after luncheon, she avoided Anthony and withdrew to her room empty-handed. Clara helped her pack for the Paris departure the following morning and then left Edith alone. She stared at the valise; her bleary eyes then settled on the simple gold band adorning her left ring finger. Edith reached for her purse and easily collected the two letters from Michael and reopened them, read them slowly…and found nothing more than words confirming the emptiness she felt within.

* * *

The novel in Anthony's lap seemed a prop in a play; his eyes' attention lingered on the fire as the hours ticked by and the honeymoon ebbed closer. The relative closeness they shared in the morning and the taking of meals together—albeit with little to say—gave him a bit of hope for some semblance of peace between them. Feeling the warmth, though, from the flames emitted from the library's hearth, the memory of their walk hours before and her touch of his arm, her body leaning into his, Anthony Strallan couldn't help but acknowledge how good it had felt to be with her again even in the barely companionable state of their marriage. The feelings he guarded, especially in her presence, now surfaced and he set the novel aside to attempt the letter once more…

* * *

The trip to Paris consisted of reading books, thoughtful writing, contemplative silences, and clandestine looks—each watched the other, admiring in vain, until caught in the act and attentions beckoned elsewhere. When they finally arrived, Stewart unloaded their valises with the help of the hotel staff and they went to their rooms, a suite large enough for the couple to remain separate and Stewart to be nearby in the same corridor. Edith, exhausted from the trip, immediately retired, and Anthony, too, disappeared in his room. Worried for her condition, Anthony did not suggest much touring or traipsing about, but settled for arranging meals and, perhaps especially, late-evening snacks and cakes to sustain her through her bouts of nausea in the wee hours-or simply listening for her to be up and around in her rooms, wondering what she was doing, thinking, feeling.

After two full days of rest and ostensibly doing nothing, Edith emerged with a desire to see the city and Anthony and Stewart obliged with the Louvre. A bistro for lunch and a return to the museum to see more…and more… Edith wore herself out walking and standing until Anthony insisted they rest and return the next day. Soaking her feet after dinner of the second day, Edith—animated with the joy he'd not had the privilege to see in years—marveled at the art and history and culture she'd witnessed in the two days out in the city and then surprised him with a long pause and a shy smile. "Thank you, Anthony."

"You're quite welcome…Edith."

A day of rest for her to recover and they were off again: shopping, sidewalk cafes, and more.

"A bookshop, perhaps?" Anthony suggested.

And off they went to spend the entire afternoon at Shakespeare & Co. During the course of said afternoon, a young, dark-haired American observed them for several minutes before approaching Anthony.

"You're British?"

Anthony stammered, "Y-yes."

The brash American gestured to his sling. "The war?"

"How did you—"

"Just a hunch," he said, extending his left hand. "Hemingway."

"Anthony Strallan."

"Rank?"

"Major—I was a major."

Edith stood beside Anthony and spied the curiosity on Anthony's face as he conversed with the young Hemingway.

"Italy—served there for a while until I was wounded—still feel it now and then. Hell, really. The whole thing."

"Uh, sorry. Mr. Hemingway, this is…my wife—Lady Edith—she's a journalist."

Edith's mouth opened slightly, a warmth filling her at the introduction—and Anthony's obvious pride in the immediate acknowledgement of her.

"Nice to meet you," Hemingway said, a sly grin on his face. "Me, too. A writer—mostly foreign correspondence work right now."

"That's wonderful—"

"Not yet; still working on it. First novel's about the war, though," he said, nodding to Anthony. "Tell me your story?"

Anthony paled. "I don't—I don't think that's possible."

Hemingway's eyes scanned Anthony before he glanced to Edith, then back to the gentleman with genuine sympathy. "I understand." His tone softened. "I'll leave you two alone, then. Hadley's around the corner waiting on me, but I can't help to stop in and look around," he grinned. "Nice meeting you both." With that, he ambled out, perusing titles all the while.

Edith studied her husband, attempted to read him; his face remained ashen. "Anthony? Are you all right?"

"Sorry? Yes, I'm all right. Just a surprise to have that sort of conversation is all—" He stopped himself and turned his head, tilted it to the other area of the small shop. "Like to look around a bit more?"

"A bit longer, please?"

"Of course. Take your time," he urged, anxious to see her continue to enjoy herself despite his disturbed state.

Edith smiled and drifted towards the nearest shelves, but used the opportunity and distance to regard her husband with concern. Anthony still appeared unnerved by the mention of the war experience; she considered their past together, and realized they'd never discussed it. His time during the war endured as a void between them, an unapproachable chasm that left Edith wondering what was there in the vast darkness that haunted him still…

A short while later they departed, both noticing but not commenting on their synchronized strides along the sidewalk. Anthony purposely slackened his pace and the length so as not to tire her, but Edith stretched hers a bit to match him and chanced a smile at him once or twice. Paris in June with Anthony beside her in his dapper suit and quiet, gentlemanly demeanor—Edith felt on those Paris days spent together almost…happy.

* * *

By the middle of the second week, their trip drawing to a close, Anthony took a chance and knocked on Edith's door just before breakfast.

"Yes?" She smiled brightly, a look that—as it had done so many times before—left him weak inside with longing.

"Dinner this evening? I've made reservations at Maxim's—"

"The club?" Edith's eyes widened. "That sounds wonderful!"

"If you're up for it, that is; I don't want you to be distressed at all or too tired. You mustn't do too much—"

"I'm fine, really," she said. "You've taken quite good care of me…"

The acknowledgement of his generosity and willingness to please her brought a blush and he almost—for the first time—smiled. "My duty, of course—" _And delight and joy _he wanted to add, but her expression had already faded before he could amend his reply and fix the damage wrought in those two words of responsibility rather than reverence and requirement rather than desire.

"Of course…of course it is."

"Edith, that's not—"

"I'll see you for dinner then."

* * *

Dressed in white tie and with Stewart's quiet confidence beside him, Anthony looked in the mirror. "I keep messing everything up."

"It will take a bit of time, Sir—getting used to one another is all," Stewart helped him with his coat and then the sling.

"You're right."

"The letter, Sir?"

"I can't find the words…"

Stewart smiled at his master, just behind Anthony as they eyed their reflection. "You will."

"How do you—" Anthony began and then gulped. "How do you explain to someone—the woman who holds your heart and life in her hands—how do you tell her that? That you're trying to give her everything, to make up for every horrible mistake you made? That you worship her no matter what's passed…" Anthony bowed his head.

"Focus on this evening, Sir. It's bound to be a wonderful dinner."

"I hope so…"

At the sound of the knock, Edith took one last look in the mirror to touch up her curls and smooth the dark coral gown. She took a deep breath. One more glance. The bump showed depending on the angle of the onlooker. "One minute," she called in a broken timbre. Edith swallowed and inhaled sharply, fanned her eyes for a moment before closing them to block the tears. Yet again, opposing all logic and reason, she damned Michael and Anthony, her family, and everything else including the very moment in which she existed standing there in the Paris hotel on her obligatory honeymoon.

Her wits gathered, she finally opened the door and lost her breath. Anthony stood in white tie, his hair perfect, and blue eyes searching hers. "My god," she murmured as the lavender scent of him reached her.

"Sorry?"

"No—I just—it's nothing."

"You look…very nice," Anthony said.

Edith smiled, but hesitated at reciprocating. "Shall we go?"

Ever the gentleman, Anthony offered her his arm and they departed together for the taxi car.

Maxim's staff greeted them immediately and led them to the ornate interior. Sultry and vibrant music filled the dining room, which—to Edith's shock—they walked right through and into a private room with far fewer guests. Once seated, she marveled at her surroundings: gold chandeliers with crystal, dark red draperies along the walls, large gold-ornamented mirrors, plush carpeting and seats, the rich mahogany bars spaced intermittently in the multiple dining rooms, and…her husband…

Anthony delighted in his wife's use of French and, though he spoke it as well, allowed her to order for them both just so he could see and hear her in her element. The pronunciation, her lips and tongue, her eyes widening as she perused the menu with glee, and that smile. The captivating smile he'd fallen in love with so many years ago now seemed to be appearing more often in these past days together—was it? _Silly fool_.

Hors'd oeuvres, light conversation, cheeses, wine, books and music, the latest opera and theater in London, rich filets of beef Albert, haricot verts, politics and class, coffee, and patisseries with chocolate…

Edith sat back in her chair and sighed, a contented and sleepy smile spread over her flushed features. "I've always appreciated delicious food, but this…this was a positively _gorgeous _meal…"

Anthony took another sip of wine, unable to form thoughts—much less words—as he watched his Edith take pleasure in the dinner and the evening.

The two finished the lovely meal congenially talking, avoiding anything considered personal. When they arrived back at the hotel, Edith laughed almost tipsily as she leaned into Anthony. "I don't think I'll need the late night snacks you've been ordering, nor will I need food for the next week as much as I ate tonight. Thank you, Anthony, for all of this."

Anthony smiled at her, the blue eyes truly lit for the first time in their brief marriage.

"I still love your eyes," she slipped. Seeing his smile disappear, she tried to cover and reached for the lapels of his jacket, brought him closer to lean towards her before he realized what was happening, and kissed him lightly on the cheek as she'd done years ago. "Good night." Edith closed the door and leaned her back against it, upset with herself for the loss of control in her words and then the chaste kiss. As she changed into her nightgown, though, the scent of him lingered from their walk and her proximity to him during the evening and, despite the escape of a few tears, she closed her eyes and thought of him…and fell asleep easily…

Anthony retired to his room with the tingle, the feel of her lips, still on his cheek, her words echoing still in his head, and his own words he desperately wished to say—_I love you_—left unspoken… Refusing to believe her affection, if only for his eyes, he muttered, "Just the wine, of course," and stood to prepare for bed with the familiar constricting ache in his chest. He lay down on the bed, a slip of paper—the still unwritten letter—on his night table and wrote…

Edith dressed the next morning and found a slight flutter feeling in her middle had replaced the nausea. She knocked lightly on Anthony's door, still uncertain what to say after last night, but received no response and it drifted open. He wasn't there. She saw a piece of paper on his night stand and went to it believing it to be a note for Stewart explaining his early departure. All it said, in Anthony's brilliant and careful pen strokes: _I love you…_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing!_


	5. Chapter 5

Light 'M' for disturbing war material in this one...

* * *

"Stewart? Where is he?"

"He left for the day, milady. He should return for dinner."

"Yes, but where is he? I have to see him," she implored.

"I'm sorry, milady—"

"Stewart?"

"He's gone out to the country—quite a ways from here; he served there during the war and felt the need to return, given that we're already here in France. It's a sort of gravesite and...prison, if you will, milady-and I don't think he'd-"

Edith glanced at the letter in her hand. "We have to go to him; I need to, Stewart."

"I'm not sure I can find it exactly."

"Well, we'll have to do our best, then. Please—let's hurry."

Stewart and Edith boarded the later train and then paid for a car to take them to the place he knew Anthony was headed. Stewart gave directions as best he could, and allowed for landmarks to be the basis for the coordinates until they spotted him from the winding dirt path, far from any other traffic along the countryside.

The lean shadow by what appeared to be an abandoned building was Anthony. In the cool breeze, his hair blew astray and his coat rippled behind him—his head bowed as he stood still beneath the tree.

Edith and Stewart watched him from afar until Edith felt the need to go to him. She glanced to Stewart who only gave an approving, curt nod and she walked towards Anthony, whose back was to them.

Anthony, still unaware of their presence, walked inside the now-rickety house. He touched the door frame as he entered and Edith hurried to catch up to him. When she finally arrived there, the frame held no actual door and the inside stood vacant save for broken bits of wood furniture petrified from the war. Brown and burnished stains appeared intermittently on the gray-wood floor and the walls. Anthony was in the next room, just through the doorway, utterly still. Edith stepped towards him, quiet and cautious, uncertain as to how she might find him and what this place really was to him.

Surveying the room, Anthony stood in the middle and then bent down to touch a stain on the splintering floor. Edith neared him and he seemed to sense her presence and stood; she took her place on his left side and, together, they scrutinized the shelter: abandoned, completely isolated in the field, with broken glass and damaged walls...a horrific relic from years past.

Anthony's senses overcame him then, and the sounds enveloped him—the shots, the screams, the footfalls announcing impending interrogations…and Edith felt him begin to shiver beside her. When she looked up to his face, his eyes were closed and his faculties were clearly failing in the present moment, caught up in the past and the terror.

Wordlessly, standing beside him, she took his good hand in hers, tenderly slipping her fingers to lock with his until she tensed and his eyes opened to find her beside him.

"You were here," she whispered without looking at him, her eyes mesmerized by the sight before her until she shut them tight against all the details her imagination began to complete of its own volition.

After a long moment, Anthony's soft timbre broke the silence. "You were with me."

* * *

The shriek from his room woke her near midnight and when she hurried to the corridor and the open door of his room she could see Stewart there at his side in the lamplight from the night stand, gripping Anthony's shoulders and trying to reassure him in a hushed tone.

"It's all right, Sir," Stewart insisted. "You're safe."

Edith watched from the shadows of the hall, her eyes wide as the man she thought she knew came apart. From Stewart's posture, she could see Anthony was trembling, a violent shuddering from a nightmare still going on. The blue eyes she loved for their gentle vulnerability were now wide with panic and his hair was tousled, with a couple of locks fluttering just above his brow.

"No, no—she's in danger—"

"Sir—"

"They know she's my wife—they'll use her to get to me! They'll hurt her or worse—"

Stewart shook his head, slow and emphatic. "No, Sir. The war is over; no one's here. No one will harm her, I promise. Please—"

"I shouldn't be here at all—"

Stewart leaned closer, willing his presence to jar Anthony back to reality, forcing him to look into his eyes. "It's over, Major; you're in Paris and it's the year 1922. Sir, it's over. Rest, please, Sir."

Anthony's mouth opened and then closed again as he lay back down, still looking at Stewart as though he didn't know him.

Edith stood stunned at what she overheard; silently, she receded into the dark corridor and closed her door.

After a few minutes, she heard Stewart leave Anthony's room. She tried to sleep. Instead, the she saw the hands of the clock every ten minutes for almost two full hours until she heard hushed talking from across the hall again. Edith emerged from her room once more and stood by his door frame, listening intently to the whispers to try and figure out what was being said. She peered into his room, but Anthony's bed was empty and Stewart was nowhere about.

"I must leave you here—I'll be back—I promise."

She spotted him then along the wall near the window. Anthony sat with his back against the wall, huddled with his knees close and holding his shoulder.

"Hold it close—press harder to stop the bleeding—"

Edith walked closer to him, swept her gown up in her hand, and knelt in front of him. "Anthony?"

"Shhh—they're close—"

Edith touched his cheek. The tilt of his head was all she needed to see the glassy shine of his eyes—wild with fear and his hair mussed, his features ominous and pale to her even in the darkness of the bedroom. "I'm here to help you," she began, uncertain as to how to help him through this type of episode.

"My arm! I can't move it. I haven't been able to since I was shot—the torture, too," he whispered.

"How—how long ago were you shot?" Edith asked, hypnotized by his frantic state.

Anthony paused in thought before the words of explanation spilled from his lips. "I—I don't remember. I don't know how long I've been here. But, please, we must hurry—it's Captain Ayers—he's badly wounded—we've only barely escaped. Please, we can't go back to that place! We were just rescued, Ayers led it—but—are you a nurse?"

Edith's breaths stuttered. With a dry mouth and a nod, she helped Anthony stand. "You have to come with me," she said.

"I can't leave him though. He saved us—I owe it to him!" Anthony's panic brought a higher pitch to his voice and Edith sought to calm him.

"Shhh—it's all right. We're getting you out of here," she assured him. "Are you all right besides your arm injury?"

"There are others-other wounds." Anthony followed her into the expansive bathroom. She turned on the small light at the sink, which cast shadows across the tiles. "His blood and my own…it's all over me…caked on me—my uniform—" Anthony's voice broke and Edith reached for him; he jerked away from her at first, shaking to the point of convulsions.

Edith kept whispering, reaching for him tentatively until he stood in front of her as still as he could manage given the trembling and she began unbuttoning the pajama shirt. "We're going to clean you up here in the shower, all right? You're going to be fine. I can't believe you went back there today—damnable place," she murmured to herself. Edith slid the shirt from his shoulders and froze at the sight in the faintly lit room. The image of Anthony's flesh took her breath. There was no single bullet mark, but a horrifying atlas of scars indicating an origin near his joint and torn flesh surrounding it in pink and white puckered, exploded ridges covering his shoulder and chest, and others-stab wounds, perhaps, or small burns-on his abdomen and arms.

As she stood awestruck, she recalled the experiences at Downton; the memories came back to her full-force and, though she didn't deal with anything quite this severe and prolonged in its intensity, she'd heard stories about the effects of the trauma…the shell-shock she'd covered in the hospitals long after the war. The "talking cures" that appeared to help—and the sheer amount of drugs administered in hospitals that didn't. Seeing Anthony in this state, Edith repeatedly tried to swallow the pain in her throat and fight the burning in her eyes. The vulnerability and fear she saw in him stunned her, but she tried to talk to him and calm him. If she couldn't wake him from it, then she was going to talk him through it as she knew doctors would have from her interviews with them. "Tell me—Major, is it? Major Strallan?"

He nodded.

Edith turned the spray on in the shower and waited for it to warm for a moment. "Where are you from?"

"Yorkshire—Locksley," he managed.

"Is that your home?"

"Yes, that's where we live."

"Oh? You have a family?" Edith asked, taking his good hand and leading him under the water. Edith stood on the edge of the large shower stall, the moisture and steam now dampening her gown and face, concealing the tears that she couldn't arrest.

Anthony stood just in the stream of water, hesitating, and Edith leaned and stepped inside near him. "I do—my wife…she's expecting our first child…"

Edith's heart broke—Maude. For some reason, he was reliving that period in his life? How could they have come together in his memory like this—Maude had passed long before the war began… Edith went along, though. "I see. I'm glad for you," she said, loud enough to be heard over the shower and smiling at him in the dimly lit space.

"She's lovely—I don't deserve her, of course," he admitted, frowning.

"Of course you do," Edith said.

"No, I don't, but we're terribly happy despite being, perhaps, a bit unconventional together."

Edith pressed him a bit further, gently, under the water. "Just there—are you warmer? Does that feel better?"

"Yes, thank you." He closed his eyes. "Edith's everything to me and to see her as the mother of our child—"

Edith gaped at him, a mixture of complete shock and wonder. Somehow, the visit to the site that afternoon ignited the terror that woke him from sleep as Stewart found him and now, a continuation of it, in the form of a flashback he couldn't awaken from and fragmented memories blended and splashed together again as though on a corrupted canvas.

Edith finally found her voice. "I'm sure she's the lucky one." As she said it, she put her hands on his shoulders and urged him completely under the rush of warm water. Anthony's eyes shut quickly as the rivulets of water made their way over his face and, within moments, his body slackened, neck and shoulders relaxing as she let her hands drift down his arms. Looking at him in the water, his breath held and hair soaked as he bowed his head to his chest, Edith felt something—a soft flutter in her belly—and one hand immediately went to the now-drenched gown that clung to her figure. She gasped and felt the flutter again.

Anthony lifted his head and stepped closer to her, further from the flow of water with his eyes opened—seeing her. "Edith?"

Edith looked up to Anthony, her face a mixture of shock, confusion, and joy at once. "Anthony?"

Without thinking, she reached and turned the water off, and then took his hand in hers and held it to her belly. Anthony felt it and his face mirrored hers as each marveled at the moment. "You can feel it?"

"Of course, sweet one—my God, it's our child."

Edith's heart shattered. Before she could speak, his fingers touched her cheek and her lips.

"I'm so glad to be home with you." He bent and kissed her hair.

"Are—are you all right?"

Anthony smiled at her, his eyes still distant. "I think so…"

Edith took the towels from the nearby stand and wrapped him first, rubbing the towel tenderly over his hair and cheeks, before offering him a broken smile. "I need to change."

"Yes, of course," he agreed, a bewildered look as he surveyed her wet gown. "I'll wait for you before I turn off the lamp, all right?"

"All right," Edith said. She backed away from him, weighing whether she should return or not. Her room was cooler and she took a moment to slip a dry gown on before she sat on her bed. "He doesn't even know—he's lost," she cried. Minutes passed and she opened her door and peered out towards his, which was still open with a lamp on. Edith brushed away her tears and walked in to see him on his side under the covers…asleep… Elated that he was through the worst of the episode and now sleeping peacefully, Edith crept quietly to his side of the bed and leant over him. Her hand petted his blonde hair against the pillow. She kissed his temple. "I love you."

Anthony shifted slightly in the bed and Edith sighed, debated whether to climb in beside him or not. Anthony made the decision for her, in his sleep, when a soft sound from his lips yielded the sweetest syllables. "Edith…"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! You all have been so wonderful in your comments and follows and favorites! I hope you enjoy this chapter and, if you have a moment, please let me know what you think...

* * *

Edith felt him move against her. His hand slid over her hip and along her gown, clutched her closer to him before settling at her breast, brushing the silk barely covering her sensitive flesh. Uncertain, she waited with her back against his bare chest where she'd settled just an hour before and had fallen asleep to the rhythm of his relaxed, even breathing; his breath now felt hot against her neck and hair, his head nestling against hers on the pillow, and she felt his lips at her bare shoulder—kissing her? Anthony's hand moved again, his arm flexing to pull her flush against his chest. The frustration she felt, the longing for him, finally spurred her to speak, to beg, "Make love to me, An—" As she turned to him, her hand reached to caress him, his hair and face, but she quieted immediately and her hand stopped just by his cheek.

Anthony lay still. In his sleep, he'd needed her closer. Eyes closed and resting peacefully, she debated as she watched him on whether to give in to her own desires and wake him, seduce her own husband…or… _But will he know it's me and here and now or…a flashback? An illusion to him? Make love with him when he might not remember it or might think it's in the past? No. God, how I want him, but not like that… _Edith rolled back to her side and placed his arm around her and hand at her breast again. She lay there then listening to his deep breathing and feeling his warm, solid body against hers, relishing the intimacy, the scent of the two of them in the sheets—until the early-morning, empty-stomach nausea hit her minutes later and she carefully extracted herself from his grasp and hurried from the room.

After a small snack, Edith lay in her own bed. This—the past two weeks—was not what she'd imagined for herself when she first discovered she was pregnant by Michael. The relationship with him, clandestine and romantic in its initial secrecy, awakened feelings in her she thought had died and she'd given in to his charm and persistence; he gave her confidence in her talent and independence as she carved a life for herself beyond Downton. He wanted her. She wanted…something. Each time he'd touched her, kissed her, or the few times they'd made love in his flat Edith thought in the moment—in bed with him—of how much she'd craved this…something she was so certain at the time was love. Michael had been gentle, but not especially patient with her; she assumed he was so eager—or selfish?—because of how long he'd lived without intimacy in his marriage and was simply happy for the closeness between them, but when he'd whispered to her about letting go and how much he loved her, she wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel—the heat and his touch felt nice, but there always seemed to be something missing in those claustrophobic couplings. Granny and Aunt Rosamund talked about the act clinically; Mama and Sybil had blushed furiously at any mention of the marriage act, but they always gave a sly Mona Lisa grin as well. What Edith experienced with Michael only brought the blush—and it wasn't the thoughts and memories of the utter pleasure the two divined together in bed that warmed her cheeks, but absolute and humiliating shame now at her foolishness. Afterwards, in the light of morning or twilight hours when she'd left him, a chill and coldness dwelled within her. Was it love or was it desperation? Romance? Rebellion? All of it rolled neatly into a disastrous package with a lunatic wife and a man passionately in love with her willing to do _anything_… Edith rolled her eyes now at the scenario. Her thoughts drifted back to the man in bed across the hall: a dutiful husband she happened to still love and be in love with, even after eight years and a humiliating jilting. The notion of returning to Anthony's room floated through her mind again…

What would it be like with him—a husband and lover? Would he even want her now? He did once…

* * *

_"How's Anthony—excited, I hope?" Violet asked as she and Cora greeted Edith the morning the wedding gown arrived._

_"Desperately," Edith gushed. "Just when he thought his life would never change, he's going right back to the beginning."_

_Edith, enraptured with her joy, failed to see or hear her grandmother's retort. The day prior she and Anthony had taken a drive together—Edith behind the wheel and Anthony sitting close beside her calmly directing her, despite Edith's initial speeding, to an out-of-the-way part of Locksley estate she'd never seen. _

_"Just there—yes, pull over there and park. We'll walk the rest of the way."_

_"Where are you taking me?" she laughed, taking his arm in stride to walk beside him, carrying a blanket between them and a bottle of wine._

_"Secret," he'd whispered conspiratorially in her ear._

_Her brow raised and she looked to him as they strode along together and felt her voice drop, a hoarse whisper. "I love it when you do that." When he looked down at her, her cheeks a flourishing rose pink, he smiled and held her closer to him._

_"I think you'll love it out here."_

_"Well, what's here?"_

_Anthony chuckled. "Nothing yet, but…a moment, sweet one." He took her hand and led her in front of him. "Close your eyes."_

_"What?" Edith giggled. "Anthony—what are you up to?" _

_"Just for a moment. I'm going to lead you through this little clearing is all—"_

_"But if nothing's there yet—"_

_"Edith—" Anthony did his best to appear imposing, but only succeeded in bringing a faux serious look from Edith as she dutifully closed her eyes._

_"You're lucky I trust you."_

_Anthony leaned closer, his breath at her ear. "I'm just lucky, darling: I have you." _

_Beyond the grouping of trees, he was still holding her hand and stepping lightly ahead of her through the brush and branches. _

_"All right—you may open them now." Anthony watched her face as her eyes took in the sight._

_A beautiful creek with the smoothest of stones bordering it was shaded by the surrounding trees. To the west side on the bank, a rather large pile of lumber and stone sat together on a flat area nearby and Edith looked at it, curious._

_"What am I looking at?" She glanced at him and then back again at the scene._

_Anthony straightened the blanket on the bank and set the bottle of wine down before taking his place behind her, wrapping his arm around her and talking tenderly between kisses along her neck. "Whatever you wish it to be—a cabin, a writing space, whatever you like…I simply want you to have your own space—"_

_"But I don't want to be separated from you—I don't need this space because I'll be with you—"_

_"Thank God you said that," Anthony laughed. "Perhaps a cabin—away from the world—just for the two of us then? Picnics or whatnot; I know you say I work too much, but perhaps out here we can escape now and then. I know it's a bit rustic, but quiet and beautiful and—"_

_"Perfect. It's absolutely perfect," Edith said, turning and meeting his lips with hers. "I love anything that only involves the two of us." Edith pulled him towards the blanket he'd spread._

_"Edith?" _

_"Hmm?"_

_"We shouldn't—"_

_"I don't care anymore. You're going to be my husband in a few days and we're without a chaperone for the first time in God knows how long. This entire month has been tiring—"_

_Kneeling on the blanket together, Edith removed his sling and began working on his jacket and tie. "Edith, I don't think—"_

_"Don't you want to?" She followed the question with a searing kiss and her hands greedily moving over his chest, his collar and beneath it to the warmth of his skin._

_"Of course I do, but not like this—not before we're married." Anthony undermined his own statement though by letting his hand wander along her curves, his kisses as heated as hers, a soft moan escaped as she moved against him and they shifted to lay together. "Edith…" _

_"I love you—"_

_"I love—" His words were lost against her lips, both savoring and exploring until a few minutes later when Anthony sweetly cooled the passionate encounter and held her close to him, her head on his chest._

_"Your heart is pounding," she whispered. _

_"It always does when you're near me."_

_"I can't wait to be near you…completely."_

_Anthony kissed her hair and, as his lips lingered, inhaled the scent of her. "I can't help but be…" _

_"What? Can't help but be what?"_

_"Surprised by…your passion…I don't want to disappoint you, sweet one."_

_Edith lifted her head and smiled at him. "You won't."_

_"It's just—I've wanted you for so long," he confessed. "I would feel indecent and ungentlemanly if I said more." He flushed and turned his gaze to the cloudy sky._

_ She threaded his hair with her fingers. "Tell me anyway…you know you can tell me anything. Besides, we're the only two in our world here and now like this. Tell me."_

_Anthony took a deep breath and stole a glance at her before he spoke again. "That summer—after the concert…and then the war…I know, I know what Mary said that day and I left absolutely heartbroken wondering how I could've been so foolish in my old age—but then, while I was away, I couldn't help but think of you…of us. Over and over I recounted it all and it didn't make sense to me. It was the way you were with me battling with what she'd said and I finally came to the conclusion none of it fit, despite the lack of answers I really had as to why she would do such a thing, but you…thinking of being with you—" He stopped and lifted his hand to caress her cheek. "Even if you weren't waiting for me, the dreams of you kept me alive in the worst moments…those terrible days and nights, sweet one." _

_Edith waited for a further explanation of the war times, but when he faltered she prodded gently. "And what did you think of—or dream of?" _

_Anthony's finger traced her brow and cheek and made its way to her lips where he stared for a moment, pausing to weigh his words. "I dreamt of it all—a marriage to you, our life here at Locksley—you happily writing or making plans or pursuing whatever you desire…and me completely besotted with you and giving you anything and everything you want…and, of course," he paused, his fingers coaxing her to him for a kiss. "And loving you…in what will be our bed…whenever you want or need me…and, hopefully, seeing our children—"_

_Edith couldn't help herself then and interrupted. "I think I shall want you often—" _

_"Often?" He asked with complete incredulity._

_"You really have no idea, do you?"_

_"You're flattering me," Anthony said, smiling sheepishly._

_"No, I'm not! I've dreamt of you as well—nights, especially," Edith admitted. "Being close to you and your kisses and arms around me—you make me feel…well, I can't even put it into words…warm—hot even—and just like I can't help but want your—"_

_"Touch." Anthony finished for her. _

_"Yes," she said, now almost lying on top of him, her eyes fixed on his._

_"Nothing else will do...nothing else matters when you're here, when we're this close." Anthony kissed her as though to emphasize his point._

_"I cannot wait to become your wife," Edith whispered against his lips._

_"I want you so much, sweet one, and this life we'll have—you mean so much to me—everything, my love… Edith, you're everything to me…" _

* * *

The words resounded in her head at the memory as the sun began to peek through the window of her hotel room. _"I want you so much…this life we'll have…" _

"And now," she sighed, one hand moving to her middle. "Can you still really love me?" She held the note from the previous morning in her other hand. Tears threatened then as she whispered, "I need—I want—so much more than this _contract_ between us…"

* * *

Anthony woke in his room to a floral and honey scent and the impression in the sheets and pillow of another in the bed beside him…and no memory of the night's terror and intimacy… He touched the pillow where her head had been and then over the sheet before he laid his head where hers had been, taking a breath. "Edith…" His tried to ponder the possibilities of how and why and what if…

* * *

The two spent a quiet breakfast exchanging pleasantries: one knowing, but saying nothing, and the other trying to remember and reconcile, but afraid to ask for fear of the answers. They agreed to see the city one more time on this, their last, day before returning to London. A bit more rest after breakfast and they were off…the parks, the Seine, the Eiffel tower became one of their favorite spots though it took some time to fully appreciate it given the frequent stops and Anthony's constant worry for Edith's condition as they ascended in the lifts, and then a café for lunch to watch the passersby…rest again in their room before their final dinner out. A quiet restaurant near the Seine proved the perfect spot to see the city at night…roast chicken and wine with plenty of rich cheeses and a dessert of dark chocolate and pastry… Edith walked arm-in-arm with him once more along the streets back to their nearby hotel, stopping to see the Tower and city lights. Under a street lamp, Edith paused to rest and stared up at her husband.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm wonderful," she said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm wonderful," he mimicked. They both smiled in the soft light.

Edith stepped closer and Anthony instinctively took her elbow and steadied her. Looking in her eyes, he thought he saw—yes. Yes? _It's just the wine_, he thought. He banished the thought and started to turn them towards the hotel again when he felt Edith's lips on his cheek and when he stopped, she waited, and then brushed her lips against his—tender and tentative. Seeing no reciprocation, his eyes mesmerized by her, she tried to smile and conceal her disappointment. "Thank you—or I should say, merci beaucoup—for all of this, Anthony. You really have tried to make the best of this, I know." She turned quickly from him, but felt his hand on her arm and glanced back at him.

"De rien…you're very welcome..." Instead of letting the moment pass, feeling his heartbeat quicken as her dark eyes searched his, Anthony leaned down to her and pressed his lips to her cheek. Though he didn't trust his senses, he could swear he felt her lean closer to him, heard her sigh with pleasure—did she want more…or is it just…being here?

The occasion passed, though, with the sound of a nearby ship on the water blaring its horn, signaling the end as both startled at the noise and found themselves unable to look again at one another for longer than a second the entire walk back. Upon arriving at the hotel, each politely bid the other good night. Both yearned for more, yet remained paralyzed by the distances between doors and emotions that suddenly seemed insurmountable given that only one of them knew what occurred when those distances were bridged the night before and the other simply felt the void of those missing hours, was left to wonder at the intimacy that may have developed or whether it was fantasy contrived in his own imaginings when he woke...

* * *

The return to London was only slightly more comfortable than the journey to Paris. When they reached London, Anthony could see the change in Edith and the tension that returned.

"May we please—if it's all right—go by my office…just to check?"

"Of course," Anthony said.

The taxi car took them along at a quick pace and made them both sit up a bit straighter, their postures attentive to the bustle of the streets and the sheer number of pedestrians and cars on the roads.

"I'll just be a moment," Edith assured him. She smiled and he couldn't help but feel something was different—he just couldn't name it. Anthony watched her from the car, almost a half street away from the actual entrance to the building. A large number of people were parked on the street or gathered in nearby entrances to other buildings. His eyes followed her all the way and then, as he sat waiting, he considered the possibilities that awaited him: Michael had returned and wanted her back…a letter promising his return and a life together…a broken heart because she hadn't heard anything at all… Anthony's chest ached and his breaths began to falter.

"Sir, are you all right?" Stewart asked, turning from the front seat to check on him.

Inside, Edith hurried to her desk and found an envelope with her name and address on it in what appeared to be Michael's hurried scrawl …

She looked around, however, and saw no sign of him in the vicinity. His secretary, too, was missing, which almost always indicated a meeting of some kind in one of the other rooms in the building. Unwilling to face him if he was there, her heart settled on a revelation: Anthony Strallan, her husband, sat waiting for her outside. Edith couldn't stop the smile that began to spread across her face at that thought—he loved her and he was waiting outside and why on earth wasn't she already on her way back to him? Why had she pined for Michael at all? Did she really trust him after all this time? Or love him at all—had she ever? She considered the envelope, but chose not to open it for she suddenly knew the future she desired and she knew she couldn't wait any longer for it, couldn't wait to see him and tell him, to love him…

Anthony spotted her immediately as she exited the door. Edith eyed the car instantly and began to turn on the sidewalk to make her way to him—holding an envelope and smiling brightly as she tucked it into her purse—and Anthony's heart stopped, a crushing in his chest that caused him to place his trembling hand over his breastbone, his breathing increasingly erratic.

Edith never saw or remembered what happened next, but Anthony's eyes went wide before the sound of it fully reached him. The burst of glass and thunderous boom from the explosion inside _The Sketch _offices jarred him inside the car and, even as he threw the door open and broke towards where she was within a few short meters of the detonation, he saw Edith—shock and terror etched on her face with one hand covering her belly instinctively at the roaring sound—before she disappeared from his sight as the force of the blast hit her from behind and hurled her towards the row of parked vehicles, slamming her into them, before she slumped, lifeless, on the sidewalk...


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for reading and reviewing! I hope you like this latest chapter, despite it being a bit dark. If you have a moment, please do let me know what you think.

The following is rated 'M' for disturbing and traumatic content

* * *

_Edith never saw or remembered what happened next, but Anthony's eyes went wide before the sound of it fully reached him. The burst of glass and thunderous boom from the explosion inside The Sketch offices jarred him inside the car and, even as he threw the door open and broke towards where she was within a few short meters of the detonation, he saw Edith—shock and terror etched on her face with one hand covering her belly instinctively at the roaring sound—before she disappeared from his sight as the force of the blast hit her from behind and hurled her towards the row of parked vehicles, slamming her into them, before she slumped, lifeless, on the sidewalk…_

"Stewart! Over here!" Anthony's frantic cry filled the smoky and chaotic atmosphere as pedestrians scrambled and a siren or alarm of some sort began to peel through the air. "Edith! Edith!"

Before he could reach to touch her, Stewart was there gently laying her back on the pavement.

Anthony knelt beside her, oblivious to the glass and debris surrounding him. "Edith?" His good hand found her pulse and tilted her head slightly. "I don't think her neck's broken, but the head wound is severe. God knows the internal injuries—the baby—"

"Should we move her, Sir?"

"A moment." Anthony moved quickly, gingerly picking up each limb and searching for any injuries they could see. Edith's skirt and coat were beginning to soak through with blood, but the two men moved with purpose—both reverting back to their time in service amidst combat wounds and turmoil, only now with the sounds of the city reacting in alarm in the background rather than those of shells exploding in the horror of war.

Anthony glanced up. "We've got to get her out of here before we become trapped by the vehicles entering. Quickly, Stewart. I think she's all right to move—careful! Very gently now."

The younger man bent carefully and took her up in his arms towards the taxi still awaiting them. Anthony grabbed her purse that lay nearby and then followed quickly behind them, his mind trying to separate from the scene, to sever his attention from it to try to protect him once more, even as he tried to fight it and focus, to concentrate on the noise, the smell, the vision of his blood-soaked wife lying like a ragdoll in Stewart's arms—trying desperately to stay in the present _with her_. Once they reached the car, Stewart laid her in the backseat and Anthony covered her tightly with his overcoat. "She'll go into shock soon—hurry, Stewart—there isn't time."

"Go! Go! St. Mary's hospital—now!" Stewart bellowed at the panic-stricken driver who until that moment could only stare open-mouthed at the scene erupting in front of him.

The car sped away, weaving through the crowd and oncoming traffic of vehicles and personnel bound in the opposite direction.

"Sir? Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Stewart asked, now turned around and facing Anthony.

Anthony didn't respond; he was staring at his unconscious wife lying with her head in his lap and covered with his coat. Blood and abrasions covered Edith's body, and her lips and cheek were already swelling from the impact; her body lay broken and Anthony could only wonder at the horrific nature of the injuries he couldn't see. "Edith?" Anthony whispered. His trousers and shirt absorbed her blood—the head wound at her temple unable to be staunched. "Edith, darling, can you hear me?" His hand brushed her now-crimson soaked curls; her head swaying slightly with the car movement and mouth barely open, but no reply came. Edith's skin began to chill as he continued to sweep his hand back and forth over her cheeks and forehead, her breaths becoming shallower with each passing second. "Sweet? I tried—please Edith, you have to be all right—please don't leave me…I'll do anything, darling, please just stay with me…"

The taxi car braked to a staggering halt and Stewart jumped out and came around to open Edith's door. He started to remove her, pulled her to him in one smooth motion with Anthony's coat still blanketing her.

"Careful, Stewart."

The valet practically ran with her jostling in his arms through the doors of the hospital and disappeared; the driver delayed a now grief-stricken Anthony—reminding him to take the purse, to advise about the baggage still stacked from the honeymoon in the back, and to pay him before departing.

* * *

By the time Anthony arrived inside the hospital, several others from the nearby explosion had entered as well needing medical help. Anthony walked ahead of the bewildered and distressed victims reeling from the shock and turned down the empty corridor to find Edith. As seconds passed without locating Edith or Stewart, each hallway looking stark and empty and identical to the next, tears began to stream down the gentleman's face and Anthony's composure faltered. "Edith?" He turned down another and, still, no one. "Edith!" His hysterical scream brought a nurse hurrying out of a distant room. He dashed towards her and, once he reached her, took her by the arm as she stared at him in shock, and then looked him up and down—which, in turn, caused him to look down at his clothes for the first time. His mouth fell open at the sight, his perception of reality wildly fragmenting. Anthony, completely dazed, stared at his clothes as the material began to cling and stiffen from the blood that covered them. "Edith?"

The nurse, a sympathetic and petite woman in her late-30's, looked up at him with obvious concern, but with the utmost caution—gradually assessing his awareness, judging his apparent disconnection and near-delirium. "Sir, are you hurt?"

Anthony only shook his head with his mouth open, gasping for breath.

"May I help you find someone?"

"Edith—Edith Strallan—my wife? I can't find her; I thought she was here, but—she's dead, isn't she? I couldn't get to her…"

"Is she the woman your man just brought in a few minutes ago? From the explosion?" The nurse waited, but Anthony only stared through her. "Come with me, Sir." She took his arm. "Let's see about you first and then we'll take you to your wife after the doctor's had a look, all right?"

As she turned to lead him away, Anthony collapsed to his knees, his good hand grasping for the wall as he fell. "Edith!" He screamed again, but then hushed, a tortured whisper barely audible to the nurse as she leaned down beside him. "I know it," he said. "I know she's dead…I know I've lost her… please. I'm so sorry—I couldn't save her—like Ayers—I failed them. Please forgive me, but I couldn't get to her! I loved her, but I couldn't save her—"

The nurse, knowing the woman's chances of survival were slim given the injuries, looked at Anthony helplessly, saw the confusion and desperation in his features and knew not what to say to reassure him when reassurance seemed such a lie to tell…

* * *

Stewart wiped his brow with his sleeve and then realized his mistake as he saw the scarlet color on his shirt. Leaving the room where Edith lay being tended to, he breathed deeply and hurried to find Anthony.

"Sir?"

Anthony sat in a chair, blank-faced and numb, with the sympathetic nurse at his side—compelled to stay and watch over him given his state of mind and the condition she knew his wife was in at the moment.

Stewart bent in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sir?"

"She's gone…"

"No, Sir. She's back there and the doctors are working right now—she's hanging on."

Seeing the disbelieving look on Anthony's face, Stewart urged him to stand and guided him down the hall. The two stopped in front of a room in which voices echoed and instruments rattled on trays.

"She's in there."

Anthony tentatively peered into the room. Edith's pale complexion and reddish-blonde curls against the white of the hospital walls and sheets captured his gaze. "She's still here."

Stewart stood behind Anthony, slightly shorter than Anthony. "Our luggage, Sir? The car?"

Anthony stuttered. "At—they're—over at the entrance."

"Sir, it will be some time. Let me help you change. We don't have to leave, but let's put on some fresh clothes for when she wakes? Please, Sir."

Anthony reluctantly leaned away from the door and let Stewart guide him back to the entrance.

* * *

An hour later, cleaned up and wearing fresh clothes, exhausted from the travel and the events of the day, Anthony sat with a cup of coffee in his hand and Edith's blood-stained purse beside him—complete with the envelope she'd tucked inside just before the explosion—and waited, with Stewart sitting in the chair opposite.

"What did you see when it happened?"

Anthony shook his head slowly at the horror of the memory. "She was checking to see if a letter had arrived from Michael—he's still in Germany, I believe, but she was smiling and carrying the envelope here in her purse now."

"And you're certain she—"

"It's here, Stewart. The answer she wanted."

"Did she have a chance to open it?"

"I'm certain she did, yes," Anthony whispered. "I'm certain that's why she seemed so pleased-smiling happily."

"You're fearful though of…the choice she'll make?"

Anthony gave his valet a sorrowful half-smile. "Is there really a choice? She'll want him—has wanted him—and he's the child's father. If he's free—"

A white-coated doctor appeared and both Anthony and Stewart stood to greet him. "Sir? You're her husband?"

Anthony observed the grim and haggard features of the physician and felt his gut knot. "Yes—Anthony Strallan."

"Please sit down, Sir." The doctor waited and then pulled a chair over to sit with Anthony and Stewart. "I'm Dr. Fields. Your wife was badly injured, obviously, from the impact. To be honest, we're not quite sure how extensive the damage is just yet."

"Will she live?"

Fields hesitated. "It's early. We're going to do everything we can—"

"And the baby? She'll be all right?"

Fields glanced away and took a breath before turning back to Anthony. "We don't know yet, but…I'm afraid it's quite unlikely, given the injuries, that the baby will survive."

Anthony's eyes welled. "But Edith—she has to be all right—and she will be? Please—"

Fields looked to Stewart who only nodded slightly and replied, "We're doing everything, Sir. I promise."

"May I see her? I need to see her."

"We'll have her settled shortly."

* * *

Two hours later, Edith—thoroughly bandaged and gray-complected from the loss of life—lay comatose in her room with Anthony in a chair beside the bed praying, seemingly in vain, for her survival. His hand held hers and he whispered and kissed her hand and whispered again until, overwhelmed by fatigue, his head came to rest by their hands on the sheet and his eyes closed.

Stewart begged Anthony to eat an hour later when he found him heavy-eyed from sleep. Anthony refused.

"Sir, for the night—"

"I'm not leaving her."

Anthony stayed in the room and Stewart brought a blanket for him before departing to the waiting area to settle himself for the night.

Throughout the night, Anthony heard Edith murmur in her sleep, pained and incoherent syllables, and her lips barely parted, but the closest thing to consciousness he'd witnessed. "Yes, sweet?"

"Mmm…Anth…ny…" Unconscious, her bruised and cut fingers held her abdomen, her face stricken with agony in sleep.

The prick of tears immediately blurred his vision and his voice cracked in reply. "I'm here, darling. Shhh…rest." His hand brushed her hair back against the pillow, but she was gone again into sleep.

Anthony leaned over her and kissed her bruised cheek. "I shall be right here as long as you need me—I promise, sweet one."

* * *

The hours and days spent in the hospital were the longest of Anthony's life and that assessment included his own captivity and subsequent recovery after being rescued in the war. Stewart's presence was constant and affirming, but both men maintained a stoic silence…waiting…

For several days, Edith struggled in the midst of the drug-induced sleep. Seeing her in such a condition and being unable to provide comfort to her ate away at Anthony; his own memories of enduring the dreaded nightmares during forced slumbers prescribed by the doctors came flooding back and he prayed Edith wouldn't recall any of it: her whimpers and moans as she slept, the cries in her sleep, the tears that fell from her closed eyes, and the contorted grimace on her face registering the inconsolable pain she felt as she remained trapped in a state of "rest."

Stewart brought Anthony meals that went mostly untouched. The nurses checked on the quiet, steadfast gentleman frequently but none could reach him. Anthony's attention never wavered.

Late on the fourth afternoon, Edith stirred, moaning in pain as she woke.

"Edith?"

"Wh—what happened?"

"There was a bomb or something—you were leaving the office and it went off behind you and…"

Edith stared at him with drowsy eyes, her thoughts clouded as she tried to recollect the memory. Awareness dawned and her hand went to her middle as her eyes flickered back to Anthony. "The baby—my…my baby?"

Anthony shook his head, his voice soft. "We don't know yet, darling."

Reaching for a handkerchief, Anthony moved to sit beside her and console her as she broke into sobs. After several minutes, Edith opened her eyes again and touched her temple. "If I lose the baby—"

"It will be all right. No matter what happens, we'll be all right, sweet one."

* * *

The next morning brought the definitive answer as Edith's body awakened completely from the trauma. The hemorrhaging terrified them both as the bleeding intensified and a critical surgery ensued with Edith's life once again in a sickening balance with Anthony watching-helpless to intervene.

Hours later, Anthony sat with Stewart. Both men silently relived the day almost eighteen years gone when Anthony lost Maude and their newborn son within hours of one another. Anthony tried to sip coffee to quell the nausea he felt at the thoughts, the grief consuming him.

Finally, Edith was brought back into her room. When she woke, slowly became coherent again from the medications, Anthony told her...and the two of them cried together: Edith for the loss and what might have been and Anthony for the pain she endured and the possibilities. Within minutes, she fell back asleep and while she slept, he pondered the prospect of her desire for a divorce now that the situation had changed so drastically. Wouldn't she want one now? No reason for him to "save" her from scandal, no need for him at all in her life. Just a quiet divorce and she and Michael could disappear together and reappear whenever they wished. Yet Anthony admitted to himself he couldn't imagine his life now without her. If she wanted to be free, could he let her go? Surely, that's what was in the envelope—confirmation of his divorce and their future together—a bit more time, perhaps, but Michael would be free to marry her and, after all, isn't that what she had wanted all along?

Anthony paced as she slept, stopping to stare out the window intermittently at the fog blanketing the morning of her fifth day in hospital. A painful gasp startled him and he turned to see her waking.

"Are you all right?" He asked as he took his place beside her on the bed. He helped her adjust her pillow as she rubbed her temple again and attempted to ease the persistent ache radiating there.

Edith's cheeks and face still exhibited bruising, but the swelling had eased. Anthony caressed her jaw. Crushed by her physical and emotional trauma, Edith wiped silent tears from her cheeks. "No—I'm not. I just—I want to go home."

"Of course, but I haven't told your parents we've returned just yet. I can contact them today for them to prepare—"

"No, I mean home, Anthony. I want to go home, please," she pleaded with dark, welling eyes.

Shocked, Anthony tried to explain, "Yes, but I wasn't sure that you'd want—"

Edith looked to him through her weeping, managing an anguished whisper, "Take me home—_our_ home—take me to Locksley, please, Anthony…Locksley..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Ch. 8**

The police interviewed Anthony and Stewart during the start of the second week of Edith's stay in hospital. The theory investigators explained involved a bomb placed within the office building in retaliation for political opinions being spouted by some of the articles and advertisements. Of course, they couldn't rule out something as simple as an insurance scam or a cover-up of some kind, but the assailants—when caught—would face murder charges: Four had been killed inside the building and two other pedestrians remained on the brink at another hospital.

Anthony's painstaking letter to Downton related what had happened and vaguely, in the most delicate of terms, described Edith's condition; Anthony expected word from the family at any moment, but days passed without a post. Robert's sister, Rosamund, had visited twice. The resolute pair of Anthony and Stewart remained day and night.

Edith slept almost constantly due to the medications; Anthony slept only in the darkest hours when the hall was quiet and he was certain of Edith's peaceful rest.

* * *

The conversation with the doctor following the miscarriage resulted in an agonizing realization.

_"I'm terribly sorry, Lady Edith. It appears—though we can't be certain—it appears children are probably not possible."_

Anthony replayed the scene in his mind for the hundredth time, his hand covering his mouth and then rubbing his temple, as his chin quivered.

"Anthony?"

He started at her voice and swallowed, composing himself. "Yes, darling?"

Edith lay on her side facing the window. Her voice was drowsy and slurred as if still in sleep. "I want to go home, please..."

Anthony moved to her side and sat beside her on the bed. He barely touched her hair, a reddish-blonde curl astray against the pillow. "As soon as the doctor believes you well enough, I promise."

He watched her eyes close completely again and made out a murmur, "Don't…leave me…"

* * *

During the latter part of the second week, as Anthony sat beside her bed again, he held her hand, his thumb massaging her hand and tracing the thin band of gold on her finger. He frowned and bowed his head, pressed his lips to the simple strip of metal and still-bruised, fragile hand. "So much more—if you'll let me, sweet? I promise. I know you want him, but..."

When Edith woke a while later, it was Anthony sleeping in the chair with his head resting on the back of it. She watched him: quiet, dark blonde and gray beard now covering his cheeks and the line of his jaw, and his blonde hair feathered back with the angle of repose. A nurse appeared and whispered inquiries as to how Edith was feeling and before she glanced at Anthony and back to Edith smiling. "He hasn't left you. Sweet to see that sort of thing, I think. None of us can get him to rest, so I'm glad he's finally getting a bit now," she said, winking at Edith.

"He's the most wonderful man I've ever known," Edith professed.

The nurse grinned. "And he's your husband—that's awfully lucky."

Edith smiled sadly. "Yes, yes we're quite lucky…despite everything. After all, we are together, I suppose."

"A miracle in itself," the nurse whispered absently as she finished changing the bandage at Edith's temple.

"You've no idea…"

* * *

Over the following days, the nurses had Edith up out of bed taking her first tentative and quite painful steps. For the first time, she was able to bathe and begin moving about at her own discretion—though with a nurse or Stewart by her side as a precaution. The majority of the damage consisted of deep contusions and soreness in her soft tissues, as well as two cracked ribs from the impact of the vehicle. As she remained in hospital, with the baby lost, she began to waste away with Anthony fearful for her recovery—her appetite non-existent and countenance ever-darker. He ordered flowers. She cried. A new gown to wear for the remainder of her stay was bought and she cried again. Clara, at Anthony's request and arrangement with the hospital staff, brought Edith food he knew she loved…and she barely touched it.

Awake in the late hours after dinner, the two sat together in her room. Edith stared out the window and Anthony sat still in the chair just on the other side, trying to read her expression in the shadows. "I just want to go home and forget this happened," she whispered. "I don't even know where Michael is…but…" And she cried again.

Anthony thought of the envelope. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

The night-duty nurse arrived and the two hushed while the young woman administered Edith's final dose for the evening before bidding them both a good night.

Anthony watched the nurse depart from the room before continuing. "I thought for sure Michael mentioned it in his letter—"

Edith turned to him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"The day of the explosion—"

Seeing that she wasn't following him, he saw her shake her head, shifting her weight carefully to face him from the bed.

"You went to the office to see if he had written—"

"Yes?"

"And you were coming back to our car when the explosion occurred, but you had this envelope in your hand—"

Edith's eyes drifted as she thought and tried to remember the moments before the chaos…

_Edith's heart settled on a revelation: Anthony Strallan, her husband, sat waiting for her outside. Edith couldn't stop the smile that began to spread across her face at that thought—he loved her and he was waiting outside and why on earth wasn't she already on her way back to him? Why had she pined for Michael at all? Did she really trust him after all this time? Or love him at all—had she ever? She considered the envelope, but chose not to open it for she suddenly knew the future she desired and she knew she couldn't wait any longer for it, couldn't wait to see him and tell him, to love him…_

Edith's eyes darted back to Anthony's silhouette in the darkness.

"Edith? Do you remember?"

"Yes…"

Anthony fidgeted slightly in the chair, his fingers tapping at his knees and curling the fabric of his trousers. "What is it?"

"Nothing—it's nothing."

"But did he give you any indication at all of—"

"I don't care, Anthony."

"I beg your pardon?" Anthony's blue eyes were larger in the darkness as he tried to fathom her sudden change in disposition at the recollection.

"I don't care."

"But—but why not? I don't—"

Edith's fingertips reached for his lips. "It's not important—not to me—not anymore."

"If he's coming back, though—"

"If he's coming back, then…"

Anthony tried to discern the rest of her statement, but lost it. "Edith—"

"Don't you want to go home to Locksley?"

"Of course, but not until you're well enough."

"So, you do want me to come with you?"

Anthony felt his insides tighten. "Of course I do," he confided.

"Why?"

"You're…" He swallowed, aware of the intimacy between them and the proximity of their bodies—Edith still lay on the edge of the bed near him and her hand had quieted him, but remained at his neck and collar. "You're my wife and I—I think you would recover more…peacefully there."

Edith's fingers tugged at his collar, but her voice was tired. "Anthony—"

"Yes?" He interrupted too soon, startled her.

"I want…I mean—do you want me…" Edith's eyes moved from his eyes to his lips to the buttons of his shirt before the heaviness of sleep began to envelop her once more. As she lay back on the pillow, still trying to talk, she didn't hear his urgent whisper as he stood and leaned over her.

"I want you with me," Anthony said, the back of his hand warm against her cheek. "Edith?" But she was already gone.

* * *

The doctor declared her well enough to travel the following day, though he implored her to eat. Regaining strength, he emphasized, would be essential to a complete healing. Anthony promised to look after her and he and Stewart escorted her out early the next morning to catch the first train—at Edith's pleading—back to York.

The hours on the train challenged her body. Anthony reserved a car with a bed for her, but the pain and throbbing in her mid-section and ribs furiously eroded any progress they thought she had made. Late that night, Stewart had to carry her up the stairs to her room at Locksley and Mrs. Brandon, Anthony's loyal cook, prepared some food and placed a tray at Edith's bedside in case her appetite returned. Clara traveled with them to be a lady's maid and assist Edith with anything she might need in terms of bathing or changing, and she helped Edith into a fresh gown after a warm bath and a dose of pain medication to ease the physical misery she was enduring.

Anthony knocked on Edith's door after allowing her time to settle.

"Come in."

"Hello."

Edith gave him a pained smile. "Come to say good night?"

"Of course—and to welcome you home," he smiled, his tone sober. "Though I do wish it was under better circumstances."

Edith chuckled, but grasped her abdomen and right side to limit the vibrations that aggravated her condition. "Not exactly what I had imagined either."

Anthony appreciated her dry humor and laughed, too. "Is the room all right?"

"Yes," Edith assured him. They looked around simultaneously at the tidy room, sparse but warmed with beautifully stained furniture, books, a stained glass lamp, and freshly cut flowers by her bed. "Thank you for arranging this."

"Mrs. Brandon took care of it. She's always been fond of you." Anthony glanced around from the hearth back to her, anxious. "I'll be just down the hall here if you need me—or you can ring Clara as well—"

"Anthony—would it be all right if—" She hesitated and stared into the fire Stewart had prepared for her earlier.

"Yes?"

"Given that you're…my husband…and my injuries…well, I've gotten used to you being here when I wake and—I wouldn't ask you to stay if you're uncomfortable. I know you need your rest, too, that you're probably exhausted from these past weeks—"

"Of course I'll stay."

For a second their eyes met in the lamp and fire light…

"Just in the chair here," Anthony said, moving the chair from near the hearth to her side of the bed. "I'll be…right here then."

Edith nestled under the covers and let Anthony help her with the heavy duvet. "Good night."

"Good night…sweet one."

Upon hearing the endearment, Edith smiled against her pillow. Just before closing her eyes, however, she saw the envelope peeking out from her purse now settled on the far side of the room near the door and wardrobe.

* * *

_Michael stood there, smiling at her and waving as she hurried to him on the walk; the envelope was in his hand as he gestured with his other arm and proudly took her hand to lead her into the home behind him. Dressed in his usual suit and charming grin, she initially let him lead her until she looked up._

_"No! Michael, no!" _

_Erupting from the home came flames and black smoke, each window exploding mutely and Michael turned to look at it, too, but only smiled and reassured her._

_"Come on, darling, it's perfect—it's all for you!"_

_Edith tried once more, walked beside him, measured his confident look—but again, when she glanced at the two-story townhome he was leading her to, all she saw was fiery destruction and smoke billowing out towards her._

_"Michael!" She screamed, but it was as though he couldn't hear her… When he turned from her to look at the home—and their life together, it all appeared normal again. Edith blinked and looked to his face. Michael grinned, a certain disbelief in his features as he joshed her for being so ridiculous as to doubt him._

_"It's perfect…" The words kept repeating from his lips as he pulled her with greater force towards what she knew was an inferno…_

Edith woke with a quiet gasp, her silk gown clinging to her. She peeled the sheet off of her. Anthony was asleep, uncomfortably reclined in the chair beside her bed with his legs outstretched and back bent awkwardly to accommodate his tall frame. He was wearing what had become her favorite wool sweater and his sling hung on the side of the chair behind him as he slept. Her heart pounded, still reacting to the horrific nightmare. Moving from her bed, she gingerly stepped closer to him as he lay in the large chair and she eased herself into his lap, her head nestled against the soft wool covering his shoulder as he murmured in his sleep. Worried that he would wake, Edith waited to breathe until she felt him relax again—and then felt his arm wrap around her and hold her closer.

"All right?"

She startled at his voice, inadvertently clutched him tighter. "What?"

"Are you all right?" Anthony asked, his eyes open and voice calm.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I don't sleep all that soundly, I'm afraid, particularly when..." He quieted without explaining further. They both adjusted to one another; the stillness between them tangible. "Are you all right? You seem upset."

"Just a nightmare," she said, her lips against his neck. "Michael and promises and some sort of hellish fire…"

"Sounds rather what that fellow Freud would discuss. I'm very sorry…"

"Don't be—my own fault for ever trusting him."

"No, don't berate yourself, darling." Anthony took a deep breath and held her a bit tighter. "I hate to hear you blame yourself—"

"Who else is to blame?"

"I hurt you; it's my fault—and Edith, I'm so very sorry for it…"

Edith kissed his jaw, his cheek. "I know…I know, Anthony."

"Edith, this…position…you can't be comfortable in this chair. Perhaps—you should rest on the bed—"

Anthony looked to her eyes, deep and luminous in the ember light—the touch of her lips on his skin seemingly imagined.

"Will you rest with me? I know you're not comfortable either."

When Anthony gave her no response, Edith moved from him, defeated, and situated herself beneath the covers once more and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw him in front of her and felt him sit on the edge of the bed as he slipped off his boots and shed his sweater, straightened his button-down underneath.

"Anthony?"

"Is this all right?" He asked. His head bowed to his chest.

"Yes."

Anthony lay on his left side, paralyzed by the need and uncertainty. As he closed his eyes, he felt her arm beneath his damaged right one and her hand settle on his chest, just at the opening of his shirt…his heartbeat under her fingertips… Edith curled closer to him, melded her body to his. The fatigue and adrenaline from the nightmare began to catch up to her and, warm and relaxed, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the pillow next to his.

"Thank you for being here," she whispered.

"There's nowhere else…" He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't think with her breaths at his neck, her hand so close to his skin, the Edith he'd wanted for so long surrounding him… _I love you…_ Anthony felt the words on his tongue, the refrain echoing for minutes within… "Edith…"

"Hmm?" Her drowsy reply hummed against his back, sent a shiver as her breath reached his ear.

"I love you…"

"Mm…love you…"


	9. Chapter 9

**Ch. 9**

Edith studied Anthony in the cloudy light of the morning that peered through the slit of the drapery. The soft shadow of a beard, blonde with silver woven through, shrouded his cheeks and jaw; she traced the line from his ear and sideburn down to the curve of his neck and shoulder before she nestled closer to him.

"Good morning," she said.

Anthony felt the whisper against his skin before his eyes opened, heard the gentle drops of rain on the window. In his sleep, he'd shifted onto his back. Edith lay with her arm across his chest and her legs tangled with his beneath the sheets. When he took a breath, her hair fluttered against his lips and he savored the fragrance and softness of it.

"Good morning."

She stretched against him and he closed his eyes, felt his body react to her and the intimacy.

"I think we both slept," Edith said, her tone incredulous given the state of her health and Anthony's admittedly persistent troubles sleeping soundly.

"Are you hungry?"

Edith let her hand drift across the buttons of his shirt. Her touch was casual—or trying to be—and her eyes flickered between following the lazy movement across his chest and back up to his face in an effort to gauge his reaction. "I think so, yes."

Anthony shifted away from her to reach for the bell, but she stopped him and tightened her grip. "What is it?"

"I just—is it—can we—" Edith's words failed. She felt the silliness of the rambling.

They looked at one another and Anthony gave her a tentative half-smile, a silent encouragement.

"Anthony, thank you for staying with me. I didn't know how it would be waking up with someone…I don't know how else to—" She blushed, glanced to the bedclothes still surrounding them and then in an instant looked up to him again. She knew what he must be thinking. "I never stayed with him. I always had to leave so as to…well, it's over now."

Anthony clenched his fist and waited a moment, stared back out the window unable to face her, before replying, "You deserve more than to be…kept like that—a secret that turns that pleasure into something depraved and dirty—that's not you, Edith. There's so much more to real love than doing something like that, especially to someone as worthy as you." The tone of disgust faded as he ended with a sense of the sacred, caused her gaze to drop once more, her head bowed.

"I'm so ashamed—" She cried. "But, Anthony, I didn't—I want you to know that I didn't open the envelope."

"What?"

"When I went to the office that afternoon—I didn't open it. I thought of you—of us." Edith saw the confusion and patience reflected in his features. "I thought when I saw his handwriting that I would want to hear from him, but…I didn't." She took a breath and winced. Anthony pulled away from her and coaxed her to settle more easily on the bed as he sat up to watch her, wait for her words… "I realized I didn't care what Michael's reasons were because…you were waiting for me." She smiled up at him. "You were outside and I couldn't wait to get to you, so I hurried outside and—"

Anthony took her left hand in his and, with tears in his eyes, kissed her fingers tenderly. "And thank God you did."

"Anthony, are you happy? Can I—do you want to stay with me—or allow me to stay here—despite the reason for us being…gone now? Or do you, I mean, I know this isn't what you wanted or expected, so if you wish for there to be a div—" Edith choked on the final syllables.

His heart lurched and he found his voice to stop her. "I don't. Unless, that is, you—"

"No, not at all. If you want me—"

A heavy and obvious knock came at her door.

"Lady Edith? Sir?"

Anthony and Edith both looked to the door. "Yes, Stewart—come in."

"My apologies, Sir, but Lord Grantham is here—and is quite worried. The family was in Scotland and only received your post a few days ago; they returned rather immediately to see Lady Edith."

Edith and Anthony nodded to one another before Anthony responded. "Of course. I'll be right down."

"Of course, Sir."

Anthony stood, but Edith reached and took his hand. "Anthony?"

He smiled at her. "Let's see your parents and we'll talk after we've reassured them?"

Edith tried to return his smile, but she couldn't quite read it: was he sad or hopeful or…? "Yes, all right—but can you reassure me?"

Anthony appeared puzzled for a moment and realized why she needed reassurance at all. "You must not remember…"

"Remember what?"

"Last night you were drifting off…" Anthony hesitated, for the thousandth time struggled to find the right words. "I love you, Edith Strallan."

Edith sat with her expression suspended in surprise.

"We'll talk as soon as we let your parents know you're well," Anthony said, a smile widening on his face as she, too, began to smile. He followed a grinning Stewart out the door.

As Edith watched them walk out, she could only murmur in disbelief, "You do?"

* * *

"We came as soon as we could—" Robert began, his eyes wide at Anthony's disheveled appearance.

"Where's my baby?" Cora began walking towards the stairs before she finished the question.

"Stewart, please take Lady Grantham to Lady Edith's room."

Robert patted Anthony on the shoulder, but left him to follow Cora and Stewart up the stairs.

After the immediate hugs and comfort, Cora and Edith were left alone while Robert and Anthony retreated to the library.

"So, the baby was lost…"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Poor girl—the shock of it and all. I mean, I know it wasn't the best situation, but Anthony—how do you feel about it? I mean, not to be too forward , but does this change anything? Does it mean the marriage is over? I wasn't sure how you might feel—"

"I intend to do whatever Edith wishes," Anthony affirmed.

Robert leaned back in his chair and then forward again as he thought. "I don't think a divorce this soon after would look good either, if you're concerned for her and don't mind her being here." Seeing Anthony's immediate flinch, he tried to recover, "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

"Lord Grantham, I have never been one to _mind _Lady Edith's presence or company and our marriage is no different. I will do whatever Edith wishes, though I hope it's not a divorce."

Robert observed Anthony in the chair across from him. "Has she heard from Gregson? You sound as though she has a choice."

"Doesn't she always? If he's returned a single man available to marry her, then it is still her choice as to whom she wants."

"But, Anthony, don't you—"

"Yes, Lord Grantham—I do. I fully intend to be her husband until I die, but that doesn't mean this is the situation she prefers."

* * *

"How're you feeling?"

"Better—certainly better than in hospital." Edith was finishing the breakfast Stewart and Clara brought for her, and Cora sat beside her on the bed, doting, worrying incessantly, and apologizing for not being in London.

"And the honeymoon?" Cora's eyebrows rose with the curve of her lips, hopeful.

Edith's pale cheeks pinked. "Um…it was as wonderful as it could be given our circumstances. Anthony made certain of it."

"So you two are getting along all right?"

"I think so…"

Cora looked at her daughter and then tilted her chin. "Are you happy with him? I mean, I know with Michael you had hoped—"

"I don't hope when it comes to Michael, Mama." Edith shook her head. "Anthony is…I hope he's happy with me—"

"So, you do want to stay with him? Even if Michael returns?"

"I think Michael wrote me the letter I picked up that afternoon, but I haven't opened it and don't care to. I've made my choice; I can only hope that Anthony wants the same thing."

"Are you certain you shouldn't at least see what he said?"

"I'm sure, Mama. Nothing Michael can say will make up for the months of not hearing from him—whatever trust I had in him is gone."

Cora pursed her lips and nodded. "I see. Have you told Anthony how you feel?"

Edith shook her head. "No. Last night he stayed with me. He's been very attentive and kind."

"And loving as a husband should be. Darling, I knew he would be," Cora smiled. "Can we do anything for you?"

"No, I believe he's taken care of most everything, but thank you."

"Dinner, then, at home when you're well enough?"

Edith nodded, but then added. "Yes, of course, but Mama—Locksley's my home now, or at least I want it to be."

* * *

Cora and Robert said their good-byes to Anthony and promised to call again soon, implored him to keep in touch and expressed their every confidence that Anthony would take excellent care of their daughter. As they returned to Downton, each filled the other in on what they'd learned about the newlyweds' situation and they exchanged knowing smiles.

"He loves her," Robert said. "I saw it."

Cora looked to Robert and back out the window. "I know. He never stopped."

"You're so confident."

"I am—he's loved her for years, Robert. This terrible situation simply brought them back where they should have been all along. Edith loves him, too."

"Did she tell you as much?"

"She did—called Locksley her home."

"So, they're in love; I wonder if they themselves know it." Robert thought for a moment, "I am concerned though, Cora, that loving each other now may not be enough. Darling, it isn't years ago. There's so much that's happened since. Do you think they'll be all right then, barring any reappearance of Gregson? Good lord, if I could get my hands on him—"

"It's over, Robert." Cora patted his leg and leaned into her husband. "Anthony and Edith are well on their way to righting everything that went so horribly awry—I just know it."

"What if he comes back, though?"

Cora sighed. "Edith's made her choice…only this time, I think, Anthony will accept it. It's been him all along, Robert; everything in the world was against them—the war, time, fate…us."

"Ironic, then, that we end up throwing them together again, don't you think?"

"I'm all for irony if this is what comes of it."

* * *

Rosamund Painswick glared at the man standing in her foyer, eyebrow arched. "What is it you want, Mr. Gregson?"

"Where's Edith?"

"_Lady _Edith is with her husband."

"What? Who?" Michael Gregson's tone reached full panic, a rare and extraordinary pitch.

"She married Sir Anthony Strallan almost two months ago. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"She knew I was coming back and we were going to—"

"Did she know?" Rosamund's derisive tone cut him to silence. "You were too late. Besides, you did more than enough prior to your departure."

"But I wrote her—and that's my child she's carrying!"

"Not any longer."

"What do you mean?"

"For a man in the business of news, you seem quite behind."

Michael stood slack-jawed, uncertain as to what sort of revelation might be awaiting him.

"The explosion at your offices…Edith was there to pick up your letter that day and as she was leaving—"

"Oh my God—" In that moment, it came together for Michael: the victim police left nameless when they spoke to him about the incident the day before when he first arrived back in London after hearing of the destruction of the office. He'd chosen to wait upon initially hearing the news of the explosion because the divorce papers were to be finalized within days—he'd stayed in Germany for Edith, for their future, so he could bring back the legal proof of his new status to prove to her and her family he was hers…

"She's mine—I did everything for her—gave up everything to be with her!"

"Yet it seems you went about it out of sequence, don't you think, Mr. Gregson? Perhaps impregnating her should've occurred in your marriage bed, not in the one left cold by your wife's absence. Good day."

"You've no idea what you're talking about! I'm not giving up on her—I'll find her!"

"Mr. Gregson, I can only wish you luck, for you will be up against quite the adversary for her affections."

"Strallan? Isn't he the one who jilted her? What possible affection could there be, for God's sake?"

Rosamund only smiled. "Good day, again, Mr. Gregson."

But Rosamund turned on her heel, and let her butler usher the stone-faced Michael Gregson out the door.

"Ticket, sir?"

"York—earliest departure possible." Michael paid for the ticket, set down his valise, and began to pace. The image of Edith hurt, pregnant, and then _married—_Edith _Strallan. _"Surely she was forced into it…" Michael seethed, his fingers ripping through his hair impatiently as he hunkered on the bench. He hung his head and stared at the floor. "_Strallan_…it can all be fixed—and it will be, darling…it will be…"

* * *

A/N: I do appreciate and love to know what you think, so thank you for taking the time to read and review! And I forgot to answer a question: Yes, the contents of the envelope will be revealed :) Thank you again for sticking with me and I do hope you're enjoying it!


	10. Chapter 10

"Come in."

Anthony opened the door to Edith's room and smiled, took the chair by her bed. "Feeling better?"

Edith sighed. "Yes, my mother was very worried and apologetic; I'm so glad they came. She wants us to come to dinner as soon as I'm well enough."

"Excellent—I'd be delighted."

Edith smiled.

"What is it?"

"I just love it when you're delighted—that's all," Edith grinned, felt the blush heat her cheeks at the flirtation.

Anthony, too, warmed. "I'd be even more delighted to know that your appetite has returned? Your strength?"

Edith nodded. "I think so. I am feeling a bit better after breakfast…I'd like to walk a bit, actually, just around inside, if that's all right? The train yesterday and being in bed all these weeks is about to drive me out of my mind."

"A walk—a short one then, but on the condition that you rest immediately afterwards."

Anthony stood and offered her his hand to steady herself in sitting up and taking the first steps. She gripped his arm with both her hands and leaned into him.

"Just in the hallway here—"

"I was hoping I might make it down to the library and I could rest there?"

Anthony hesitated, weighed the possibility. "The stairs—I'll get Stewart first—"

"I think you're quite strong enough to help me and I'm not as weak as I was, even last night," Edith insisted.

Anthony shook his head, indicated his sling. "Stewart has arms to hold you, Edith, should—"

"I have arms to hold onto you and you're quite sturdy, so that should be just fine for us both."

Anthony submitted and, prudently, they proceeded down the corridor with Edith stealing a glance in the other direction first to spy Anthony's bedroom before edging closer to the stairs. Edith held onto him with one arm and the rail with the other. Stewart greeted them downstairs with a smile and slight bow to his new mistress.

Once in the library, Edith still held his arm and curved into his side, surveyed the entire space noting any changes that might have occurred in the more than two years since she'd been inside of it…

* * *

_"Anthony?" _

_"Edith, I wasn't expecting to see you until dinner tonight. What are you doing here, darling?" Anthony asked, emerging from his study._

_She frowned, a lovely look of disappointment. "I came to see you…I thought you'd be pleased. We've hardly had a chance to be together—just the two of us."_

_His eyes glancing about rather than settling on her for any length of time gave away the anxiety, the need for her, and the words that wouldn't come... When he walked across to meet her, she immediately embraced him and kissed his cheek and then lingered, ventured to press her lips to his. "Edith…"_

_"One more day," she crooned. "I can't wait to just be here with you rather than have to make arrangements to leave Downton and visit. I feel as though Locksley is already my home," Edith smiled and shrugged, matter-of-factly._

_Anthony was hypnotized by her—every move and gesture, every touch and kiss…that perpetual, radiant smile… "In another day it will be yours—and all that is in it."_

_Edith gave him a sly grin. "You being the most important. Now, if you insist we need a reason, how about we agree that I simply came to see about a book? I don't need a chaperone," she said, her fingers curling beneath his shirt collar, "to pick out a book from my fiancé, do I?" She was so close the breath of her words grazed his lips._

_"You do if this is the way you go about it," he teased, his arm pulling her closer. _

_"Did I interrupt your work?" _

_"Yes. Just taking care of a few items before we are scheduled to depart on honeymoon."_

_"I am sorry to take you away from all of that," she feigned. "Are you terribly disappointed?"_

_Anthony laughed, shook his head. "I could never be disappointed, sweet one. You should interrupt me any time you feel the need."_

_"I plan to…" Edith coaxed him closer and he bent to kiss her, to prove to himself once again that she was real—still thrilled that each time it seemed she welcomed him, wanted him even more. An illusion, surely? _

_Edith reveled in the intimacy. She'd kissed him with abandon until he broke the kiss and, gently, turned her around, held her close to him while they stared at the shelves. "You're going to make me actually pick one, aren't you?"_

_"Of course. I shan't have you lying and plotting behind others' backs and such…" He chuckled in her ear, a light kiss at her shoulder. "You're too good, Edith, too perfect for that sort of thing. Besides, you've become quite familiar with the collection I have and I'm sure you can find something that piques your lovely interest. Go ahead—anything you like."_

_Edith giggled. "I shall return it tomorrow evening—" _

_"That should tell you how much I trust you—letting you walk out with anything in here for an entire day and night." He laughed again at the dry humor between them, a soft, low exhalation against her hair as he continued to hold her close._

_She looked up to him, a crooked angling of her neck in order to kiss him again. "We're perfect, you know." _

_Anthony smiled at her, never gave away in words what he'd heard them say in those weeks prior, what fears and doubts filled him, but his eyes… _

* * *

Remembering that moment, she looked to Anthony now. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it then," she cried.

"Darling, what are you talking about?"

"You were hurting then and I didn't see it—I didn't know you were worried just before—when we were here the day before the wedding—Anthony, I'm so sorry."

"Sshh. It's all right—"

"It isn't all right!"

Anthony held her, his hand to her cheek. "It is and will be. We're…already married now, so I'd say we've come quite a distance since the last time you were here in _our _library."

Edith rolled her eyes. "Yes and the very people who had a hand in tearing us apart last time brought us back together now." She laid her head on his chest and he stroked her back before urging her to take a seat on the sofa by the hearth; he helped her sit gently and took the seat beside her. "My mother made a comment before about how—" She stopped and looked up into his eyes.

"Yes?"

"About you—how you've loved me all these years and that you left me there that day—"

"Because I loved you too much to limit you to this life." There it was—the breaking in his voice, the pained and defeated look in his eyes. "You're far too precious to me; I had to give you the chance to have a better life."

Edith dabbed the tear from his cheek. "I hope I can convince you that this is the _best _life I can imagine—that you aren't limiting me at all."

Anthony took a breath, swallowed to try and regain control, but the words spilled out of him instead. "Darling, I want you to write or do whatever you want to do. I don't want to hold you back. You can live here or London or wherever you'd like. I don't want this marriage—or me—to be…an anchor to you. Just as I said at the solicitor's—you can do whatever you want to do—I only wish to protect you—"

"Anthony, I _want _to be here. I want to live with you—I always have...wanted you. I'm sorry for what happened with Michael—"

"It's my fault—"

"No, I made choices and now–"

"We both did and, Edith, I'm so sorry. I want to make up for it—"

"So do I. I know we can't change what all has happened, and I certainly can't erase what was done with Michael, but is it possible…" Edith looked down in her lap and ran a nervous hand through her hair before feeling the courage to make eye contact with him and pose the questions that mattered most to her. "Is it possible for us to start again? For you to love me despite what I've done?"

Anthony brushed the tears away from her lashes as his eyes glistened, and he tenderly traced her cheek and jaw. "Sweet one, I should be asking you that question as well. Is it possible for you to love me despite what I did?"

Edith reached for him and, carefully so as not to hurt her still-healing body, Anthony held her. "I love you so much."

"I love you, Edith—I always have loved you." He felt her grip tighten around him as though she were desperately clinging to something. The anguished whisper in his ear crushed them both.

"We're finally together and…because of what's happened…we can't have a family. I wanted us to have children and…I know how desperately you've always wanted—" Edith choked on the words, her tears dampening her sleeves and Anthony's shirt as she gripped his shoulders and ducked her head to his chest.

"Ssshh…" Anthony tried to calm her. "We'll be all right. You're everything to me, darling, I don't need anything more—I love you. There now, shhh…"

Anthony held her until the tears ceased, gave her a handkerchief and rang Stewart for some tea, and they remained in the library.

To Edith, nothing changed. Even if a book had been taken down, it was now in its proper place where she knew Anthony kept everything so well-organized, so orderly. As Anthony worked at his desk just near the French doors to the outside of the estate, she watched him concentrating and writing and fell in love with him again—sweet, kind, tender, and yet…he managed his polite, masculine manners to perfection and shielded his vulnerability from the world. She recalled again the memory of the last time she was here and she smiled. "I suppose I should return your book."

Anthony looked up, bewildered by her comment. "Sorry?"

"The one I borrowed that day…it's at Downton. Do you remember—"

"Lawrence's _Sons and Lovers_," Anthony finished.

"Yes." They stared at one another for a moment. "I started it the night before—the night I borrowed it and then…read it after…" She left out the words _you walked away_ and let them alone. "I'll retrieve it at Downton when we go there for dinner; I hid it, just in case, so it wouldn't be discovered after I'd gone to London."

"I think it's time it was returned home then," Anthony said with a sad, conciliatory smile.

"Yes, where it belongs," Edith agreed. So as to affirm their earlier conversation, the bridge traversed earlier, she declared to him with sweet utterance, "Home. It deserves to be home like I am."

Luncheon was served in the library with Edith reclining a bit to ease the pain in her side and, immediately after, Anthony took her back upstairs to rest for the afternoon. He watched her sleep, read for a short time, and settled his eyes again on her. Dinner was downstairs at Edith's request as she was feeling better and well-rested and the two sat and dined casually at the table with Mrs. Brandon and Clara fussing over Edith. They relaxed in the library again after with Edith's feet in his lap and books to read while the fire died down in the hearth.

As the hour became late, they ascended the stairs cautiously. Edith kept walking even as Anthony stopped at her door. Anthony watched her walk further down the corridor and stop directly in front of his.

"Did I guess right?"

Anthony nodded.

"Shall we sleep in here tonight?" Edith whispered it, too shy to be as forthright as she wished to be about their intimate arrangements. "I know we can't…be together just yet, but…can we at least sleep as if we are…as we will be soon, I hope?"

"Whatever you wish, sweet. I'm afraid my room is probably not as comfortable as you might like—"

"As long as you're in there with me, I don't think we're going to have a problem," Edith spoke the words and held her hand out to him.

Anthony took her fingers and laced them with his, but then heard the bell ring at the front door and Stewart answering it.

"I'm here to see Lady Edith Crawley. Where is she?"

Stewart leveled a stare at the dark-haired gentleman standing in the lamp light. "I beg your pardon, sir? Who may I ask are you to inquire after Lady Edith _Strallan_?"

Gregson's eyes narrowed. "I'm Michael Gregson. I've been away, but please, I know she would want to see me."

"I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to leave. The hour is late and Lady Edith has been recover—"

"I know! I know she was in that terrible explosion—I must see her!"

Anthony and Edith heard the raised voices as he opened the door to his room and they looked at one another before Anthony started down the stairs.

"Anthony?"

"I'm sure it's all right. I'm just going to see, darling. I'll be right back."

As Anthony continued down the staircase, Edith walked to the top and listened as the voices continued to echo and she felt her neck tingle at the recognition…a chill slithered through her veins. _Michael._ She stopped and listened hard so as to hear every word between them.

"What's going on?"

"You're Strallan?"

"Who are you?"

"Michael Gregson. I believe you have _my wife_."

"It's my understanding, Mr. Gregson, that your wife is in an asylum. Unless, of course, your divorce came through at the same time Edith and I were married—legally—in London. Either way, Edith is not _yours _at all."

"I need to talk with her…" Muffled words then and an exchange between Stewart and Gregson she couldn't make out.

"You will only see her if she wishes to see you, but it won't happen tonight as she's quite tired from her injuries—" Anthony's response.

Edith tried to catch her breath, afraid of the slightest sound causing her to miss a syllable more.

"I have to! Things can't be left like this between us—we had a child for God's sake and she thought I abandoned her. That's the only reason she married you and it's probably not even a real marriage at that! She loves me, Strallan, and she owes me a chance to at least explain! I tried to get back to her!"

Quiet ensued except for shuffling of feet against the wood floor and then subdued, hissed whispers. Edith took a couple of steps before she heard the door closed and bolted, the igniting of an engine before it faded into the night. Anthony appeared at the stairs and looked up, startled at Edith's presence. He looked flushed and embarrassed that she'd overheard any of the conversation.

"Are you all right?"

Edith's fingers touched her throat, lingered. "I think so."

Anthony stopped two stairs below her, their eyes level. "He wants to see you," he whispered.

"He won't stop until he does—"

"You don't have to see him—"

"Yes, I do," Edith said, tears forming in her eyes. "I do. For him to understand, I need to see him. For you to see it's over with him, I have to talk to him…before we can move on…"

Anthony looked away into the darkness. He felt Edith's arms around him and her breath in his ear. "I promise he won't come between us now, Anthony." When he didn't respond, she pulled away, her arms still around his neck and face close to his. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, there's something—what is it?"

"It's just…he seems to be everything I'm not and…so much of what I wanted for you: a younger man with two arms and a genuine love for you…"

Edith began shaking her head before he was finished. "No, no, Anthony, he's not those things. I mean, yes, he's very different from you—but he's not the man for me. You are."

Anthony's head bowed in defeat, but Edith's fingers gently took his chin and tilted his face to hers. "I love you—don't my feelings matter at all?"

"Yes, of course, they do, but—"

"Please don't listen to all of the doubts that you have after just those moments in his presence—listen to me, for God's sake. I'm telling you I don't want him and don't love him and that's what I intend to tell him tomorrow—"

"Yes, but when you have the chance to talk to him and hear him out you might find that you never stopped loving him and…whatever—whomever you choose...I only want you to be happy and I'm willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means you—"

"You're infuriating. I love you madly, but you are infuriating, Anthony Strallan." Edith moved to meet his lips before she finished saying his name and, even as he tried to back away, she pulled him closer and deepened the kiss. "You're the one…I never stopped loving…"

Anthony retreated from her, though, pulled away and took her hand. "Perhaps it's best if we slept separately in our respective rooms tonight until we get this sorted out with him tomorrow, yes?"

"Anthony, we both slept quite well last night together. There's nothing to sort out except that you and I are married and I intend for us to be happily married in every sense imaginable for the rest of our lives!"

He was distant, though, his features pale, still consumed by whatever he'd seen in Michael and whatever had occurred downstairs. "You haven't seen him yet, though, and we haven't…consummated our marriage, so an annulment or divorce—if you want it—"

"Anthony! Why are you being sympathetic towards him? I don't understand it—"

"It's not sympathy for _him_, Edith! I want you to be sure! You two shared a love and a child—that's not a small loss to simply get over. Before you give your life to me like this—after all that's happened with him and the two of you and the baby—I just want you to be sure." His voice never rose, but the intensity of the pleading froze her and it was as though she could read every fear and doubt and terror-filled thought from their past, the war and his injury and the life he was left with, their engagement, and now Michael and her history with him.

Edith witnessed in those seconds the same fragile look she'd seen at the altar, the man her family chased away and the brokenness she'd seen in him in Paris that night… "I am sure. But if you need for me to be this certain, to be separated from you and sleep in the other room in order for us to overcome this situation with him—" She kissed him on the cheek. "Then I'll be right down the hall in my room if you need me."

Anthony watched her step gingerly to her door and she gave him one last glance before she shut it for the night. He walked to her door then, urgent in his knock. "Edith?"

"Yes?"

He closed his eyes, could hear the tears in her reply. "Edith, if you need me during the night—"

"I know where you are, Anthony. Thank you."

She heard his footfalls down the hall and the gentle closing of his door and she stared at the ceiling of black above her and whispered, "I do, Anthony. I know exactly where you are…"

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing and for the follows and favorites! I hope you're enjoying it thus far...


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you for reading and reviewing... I do believe the world needs more Anthony Strallans and fewer Michael Gregsons (and I happily admit this bias), but hopefully I've managed something in character for both here. Please do let me know what you think. Hope you enjoy... _

* * *

Edith shifted beneath the covers. She heaved a sigh, rolled delicately. Another breath and muttered curse. She sat up in bed and threw the covers off, found her purse nearby and plucked the envelope from it. Flipping on the lamp at her bedside, she exhaled, stared at the paper and script on it.

The envelope—slightly blemished from the explosion it survived—saturated with Michael's thoughts and her blood. Her eyes searched for some answer that could be deduced from simply fixing her eyes on it long enough, but the experiment failed.

One slit. The folded paper within peered at her.

Edith glanced around the room: the window, the bookshelves, the hearth, the door… _Anthony. _"I know where you are…" A slow exhalation and then she snatched the folded paper, shut her eyes tightly. When she willed herself to open them, her eyes fell upon the familiar cursive, and her lips moved as she read the words…

_My darling Edith,_

_Please believe me— I'm trying to get back to you! The process here isn't nearly as smooth as I had hoped and additional papers have had to be ordered, which has only prolonged this wretched period away from you._

_Our baby?_

Edith stopped there, a hand to her mouth and her eyes closed again. Another breath.

_Sweetheart, how is she? How are you? Since you told me the news, I have done nothing but dream of us. I've never loved you more and I am so sorry you're enduring this alone. Should I leave before everything is finalized? I'll do anything you ask; you need only say the words…_

_I do have excellent news: you've been offered a publishing contract! We're there, darling—every dream we've had together is awaiting us. Just a bit longer, unless you receive this and can't wait or the baby…_

The letter rested on her lap as she considered his words. She reached again inside her purse, probed until she found it. _I love you_. Edith looked from one paper to the other and back again.

* * *

Anthony stared out into the darkness having never bothered to retire to his bed after a cool shower. Locksley in moonlight. Michael's appearance unnerved him. Fine to imagine the man at a distance and loathe him for the way he'd treated Edith, but to see him and hear his plea…to know that Edith had been with him, that he'd possessed her in that manner…that she could still be with him and have a younger man with two arms to hold her and give her the exciting life she'd once dreamt of… In his own mind, Anthony simply yielded, ceded her the victory of a better life; surely, Edith would see that this life—the one he'd rejected for her years before—would be the one she herself would renounce once Michael arrived only hours from now…

A knock.

Anthony rushed to his door. He opened it and she stood there in the darkness. Edith swallowed first, momentarily taken aback by the sight of him in dark blue pajamas and blond hair still damp.

"I didn't mean to wake you—"

"I wasn't asleep; I can't sleep—what is it? What's wrong?"

"I read his letter…the envelope."

There was a long pause; Anthony had no idea how to respond. "Are you all right?"

"I'm hurting—physically and otherwise—and you left me alone—"

"I didn't want to confuse you or—"

"I read his words and then I looked at your note—the one you left in Paris when you…left early that morning. That's all I need."

"Is it, Edith? I'm terrified—" His head shook in the dark shadows, emphatic in his resistance.

"Of what? Tell me what it is that has you so frightened since you saw him?"

"Me—of everything; it's happening all over again—that you'll resent me—hate me even for all of this—for the fact that I can't give you everything you should have—for what I'll become and for never being what you need me to be here and now or ever—"

"You still don't trust my feelings for you or the fact that I would ever really choose you?"

"I don't deserve you. I never have," he said, disgust in his tone.

"And after all of this, I don't deserve you, but I love you and I want you. Do you understand that, Anthony? Will you please have enough faith in me—"

"Sweet, you don't know what you're choosing in this life with me and you don't need me, not now…you never did—"

"This isn't about what I need—not any longer—it's about how we should've been all along." Edith inched nearer, held his shirt, and drew him to her. "There's nothing he can say tomorrow to make me change my mind. I don't love him; I love you and I have for as long as I think I've known what it means to love someone." In the quiet, she took a long breath so as to steel herself. "I love you and I'm your wife—Lady Edith Strallan—and I choose to be with you tonight—and for every night for the rest of our lives."

Edith didn't wait for Anthony's response. She smoothed his shirt with her touch and turned him to guide him to the bed with Anthony still too stunned to protest. Her silk-gowned figure stopped just beside his bed and when she turned back to him her eyes dared him to speak to try and stop her.

"Come to bed with me."

Edith turned the blanket down and eased under the cover.

Anthony walked to the other side of the bed. He lay beside her and, in the darkness, listened to her breathe. "Edith?"

"Yes?"

She moved to her side to lay in profile, their bodies mirroring one another. No reply came. In that moment of tentative stillness, she felt the warmth of his hand at her cheek.

She closed her eyes. "Anthony?"

"Just…making sure…I've wanted you here…for so long." Anthony's voice broke, despair receding into the shadows as he felt her outline his lips, pressed hers to his, affirming the two of them between soft breaths and repeated kisses.

"I'm here…"

"Edith, stay—"

"I will…I promise…"

* * *

Anthony tried to remember the last time he woke with a woman beside him in his bed, her hand lazily settled on his chest and breath near his ear and shoulder, tangled with him beneath the covers, and he realized it had been nearly nineteen years: purely by accident, Maude overslept rather than retired to her room as she normally did after the rare occasions of making love. Now, with Edith, waking together had happened two consecutive nights in her bed and now in...theirs? Dare he hope for a third? A lifetime?

Edith now slept soundly on her side facing him with her cheek against her pillow. The covers were pushed down near her waist. The scoop neck of her gown revealed the smoothness of her cream-colored skin and the dark hints of the bursts and eruptions of purple-hued bruises and still-healing cuts and abrasions that began at her shoulder and, from what he could tell, must cover most of her body given the impact of the explosion. Anthony's reverential touch skimmed her collar bone, her shoulders, grazed her curves along the silk of her gown just to the edge of where the sheet covered her. "Beautiful…" He realized watching her in those moments, as he had the night before when she lay beside him, that letting her go should she choose Michael would kill him…his heart and life would depart with her. Anthony closed his eyes and took another breath before extricating himself from her tender hold. Grabbing a plain shirt and trousers, he left his room to allow her a bit more peaceful rest before Gregson disturbed Locksley once more.

* * *

Edith found herself alone in the morning light and disappointed. Worried for Anthony, she hurried as best she could to dress and look for him downstairs—but by the time she managed to dress, Anthony knocked politely on her door.

"Come in."

"Hello."

"Good morning," she said with a smile, turning from the mirror to look at him.

"Feeling better?" Anthony moved closer to her, helped her slip a sweater on over her thin cotton blouse.

"The soreness is easing a bit. I think seeing Dr. Clarkson in a couple of days will clear everything up, or at least confirm…what the doctor in London told us…" Edith looked away from him. "I do feel better—I will—even more so after this morning. He's coming this morning?"

Anthony nodded. "Are you frightened about seeing him?"

Edith's fingers shook as they crept up her neck. "No, not really. I mean, it won't be easy seeing him again, but…it's for the best. For us and him—it's best."

Anthony touched her hand, brought it from where it lingered at her collar bone and held it. "Edith, is he dangerous? Should I worry about you being near him given his temper? If he's violent—"

"No, no—nothing like that. Of course, he'll be upset, but I don't think he'd ever hurt me…not like that." Edith embraced him gently. "Promise me it will all be better after this meeting with him."

Anthony's heart, beating just near her cheek as she lay against his chest, seized. Michael's face from the night before flashed and doubts instantly riddled his confidence in their future, their marriage, Edith's decision... "I promise."

"I love you."

"No matter what happens—or happened, Edith…I love you—will always love you."

* * *

Michael Gregson arrived early—before breakfast—in brown suit and tie, a dire charm evident in his greeting to Stewart, who remained stoic.

"Morning."

"Mr. Gregson. They're in the library—this way."

Stewart announced the interloper's name, but before he finished Michael lunged past him and reached for Edith with both arms. Edith tried to back away, her body too sore to move with any haste. Anthony interceded and gripped Michael's shoulder.

"Please, be careful, Mr. Gregson."

Edith glanced to her husband and, though the words were polite, the look in his eyes was hard—one Edith had never seen before. The kind gentleman, fragile now only to his wife's affections, was on alert now to her safety and she stole a smile at him.

"Edith's still healing and quite vulnerable, Mr. Gregson." Anthony didn't push Gregson; he merely settled a boundary between Michael and Edith.

"My apologies, darling—" Michael caught himself, looked nervously at both of them. "I'm sorry—I just—Edith, I need to speak with you so we can fix this mess."

Edith leveled her stare, a practiced beginning to the reasoning she'd worked out in her mind in the days after she married Anthony in the event this confrontation would occur. "Michael, I know you went to great lengths to try and make this—"

"Oh no," Michael grimaced at the finality in her tone. "I can't let you do this, Edith. Please hear me out." He glared for a moment at Anthony, not menacing, but insistent. "Alone, please."

"Michael, it won't change—"

He took her hand and Anthony bristled. "Mr. Gregson—"

Michael immediately let go. "This is ridiculous," he whispered, exasperated already.

Anthony took Edith's elbow and led her aside. "Do you want to—"

"No, but there's no other way."

"I agree. I don't want you to be hurt or for him to do anything drastic—"

"It'll be fine, I'm sure," Edith assured him.

"Yes, this will be a sort of closure for you both."

Edith wrapped her arms around his neck, felt his warmth and held him tighter, whispered in his ear, "And a beginning for us."

"Yes, sweet one, a fresh start." Anthony kissed her temple and tucked a curl behind her ear. "I'll be waiting for you."

Edith walked back to Michael, careful of her distance. "A short walk just outside then? I think it's warm enough."

Michael gave a quick nod and moved to the door to open it for her. He looked to Anthony and glanced away as Edith walked through, and he followed behind and closed the door after them.

* * *

Stewart came to stand in the library beside Anthony and he glared out the window of the French doors. A few errant leaves swirled near them in the warm season wind.

"Anything I can get for you, Sir?"

"No, thank you, Stewart." Anthony gulped, unable to take his eyes from the couple as they walked and stopped, gestured, and Edith walked away again to the nearest bench to sit down. "At least sit and rest a moment, sweet…" Anthony implored…

"She shouldn't be out there at all."

"I know it—he insisted on privacy—I won't let it continue—" Anthony turned to his man. "Stewart, go get them. They can have the library—I don't want her out there any longer endangering her health. I'll walk. You can come and get me when they've finished their conversation."

"Of course, Sir."

"Which I hope is soon…" Anthony added. "She doesn't need this."

* * *

"But, darling, you received my letter—"

"Months too late! Michael, it's like you forgot about me—and our child—and then—" Edith cried.

"You're telling me it doesn't matter? You married a man who jilted you and you're going to choose to stay with him over the life we can have together now? A family and this contract—"

Edith gave a bitter laugh through tears. "We can't have a family, Michael! Not after the injuries, not after I lost the baby."

Michael was now on his knees in front of her. "I didn't know! I'm sorry, Edith…but surely you and I can have the life you've always wanted—in the city together? Writing and together, darling, please?"

"I don't want that life—"

"Of course you do—"

"I don't!" Edith recoiled from him.

Michael stood and threw his arms up, spun to look at the estate grounds, his disbelief piercing the pitch of his raised voice. "You're telling me that you want this? A false marriage of pretense to protect your reputation that—that doesn't even need protecting any longer?"

Edith sat, aghast at such words. "How dare you—"

"Darling, he's a much older and crippled man incapable of—"

"Michael!"

His countenance and tone softened instantly, "I don't mean to be cruel, Edith, only realistic—"

"I love him! Is that realistic enough for you?"

Stricken by her vehement defense, Michael retreated, silent for a long moment until jealousy bled through. "Have you been with him?"

"No—I've been in hospital for the past weeks, remember?"

Michael sat beside her on the bench. "But the honeymoon, even? You didn't—I mean, you talk as if you—"

"Why are you asking such a thing? I was pregnant with _your _child and he has too much respect—" Edith's cheeks flushed with fury, her breath exhausted as she felt her composure unraveling during the heated exchange.

"Edith," Michael began, attempting to slow the conversation and allow her to calm, despite his hope waning with each attempt to help her see. "I only know that we were planning a life—together—and I'm not going to just give up. I only mean that it's not too late for a divorce or an annulment if you say you haven't consummated the marriage—you can't possibly still love the very man who _left _you—"

"Yet, I do. I love him," Edith didn't look at him, but stated the words with no embellishment, no passion—a simple, sober fact. "I always have and I am not leaving him for you, Michael."

* * *

Anthony watched from inside though, too captivated and concerned for Edith to walk away, as Stewart approached, insisted, and then helped Edith return ahead of a simmering Michael. Once inside, Edith walked straight to Anthony and embraced him; he could feel her trembling. "It's over," she said, a muffled pronouncement into his chest.

"Yes," Anthony said, her hair brushing against his cheek, but his eyes locked on Gregson. "Go rest, sweet—Stewart will see you upstairs."

Michael, defeated, his passion tempered by the sight of Edith being held by her husband, swallowed the smarting prick of pain in his throat.

Edith stepped away and murmured apologies before departing to rest upstairs.

Michael and Anthony stared at one another. "I can't believe she's doing this after what you did to her."

"I made a choice just as you made your choice; perhaps it's time we allow Edith her own say."

Gregson tilted his head, a caustic smile played at his lips. "Hmm, would you be saying that if you weren't the man already married to her? The one she's choosing now? Put yourself in my position, Strallan."

Anthony never blinked. "Yes, perhaps that's the difference between us, Mr. Gregson. I would never have put myself—or her—in this position."

"You only left her at the altar—"

Anthony held up his hand to stop Michael. "Even that, at the time, was for her good—not my own, certainly, which seems to be something you would also fail to understand. Now, if you would, Mr. Gregson—ah, Stewart," Anthony gestured to his valet, who had returned. "Thank you for seeing Lady Edith to her room—if you would, Mr. Gregson's leaving now."

Michael glared at them both before attempting to save face with a grim smile. "Of course. You should know that you made a tragic mistake leaving her the first time, but…I admit it—she never got over you…or what you did." He turned to follow Stewart, but paused and turned back to Anthony. "She loves you, she says. Don't be so foolish this time—don't hurt her again. She deserves better than that."

"Quite right. She's always deserved better," Anthony whispered.

Michael Gregson only nodded in agreement at those words, flinched slightly at the truths each recognized, and followed Stewart out…


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing and letting me know what you think… I feel so lucky to share my love for this pair with all of you! Thank you! Hope you enjoy! A special thank-you to Baron for being generous with stories and plots and such…you're lovely, Sir._

* * *

Anthony followed Stewart and Gregson out, watched from the window as Gregson's car turned and disappeared down the drive.

"Better now, Sir?"

A bit of fear at Gregson's return lingered, but Anthony nodded. "Yes, Stewart—what did he say to you out there?"

"Nothing of importance, Sir."

"Don't protect me in this, Stewart," Anthony said, turned to his valet. "Was it a threat of some kind—what?"

Stewart took a deep breath and exhaled with dread. "He only said that it wasn't over yet—that he wasn't through."

Anthony cringed at the notion. "I'm going to see about Edith."

"Very good, Sir."

Anthony took the stairs swiftly—two at a time—with his long stride and elegant step quietly making his way to Edith's room, but she wasn't there. For a moment, he appeared puzzled, but then glanced down to his own door—their room—and, walking silently once more, opened it and peeked in to see Edith sleeping, tranquil…his breath caught. Careful of the potential creaking of the floors, he went to the edge of the bed where she lay and knelt beside it. Prayer. Protection—a shielding of her from whatever else might come. Reverence for her and the life they now had the opportunity to create together. Anthony wanted to touch her. Edith had removed her sweater in favor of just the thin blouse and the warmth of the blankets, her neck and shoulders revealed by the scoop neck of the material. Anthony stared at her slender collar bone that led to the gentle slope just at her shoulder and further to the hollow of her throat… With her mouth slightly open, her breathing came soft and slow, much more relaxed than she had been in hospital. For several minutes, he stayed with her, on his knees watched over her. He kissed her lightly at the temple, paused to make sure he'd not woken her, and left her there to rest as he went to the library to ponder what on earth Michael might have planned…

* * *

Michael Gregson left Locksley, humiliated and with an internal rage seizing him; his mind dwelled on all he'd lost in his months away, but he expertly concealed the seething as he rented a room at a nearby, otherwise deserted inn, near the village. He made his way to the room, propped his suitcase by the door, and shed his coat and shoes before sitting on the bed. Anthony Strallan's words kept repeating in his head. _She's always deserved better_. Michael lay back with his hands behind his head and considered for some time the implications of the statement, the way Strallan had whispered the words with such… "Agony…" he said aloud.

_Summer, 1921_

_"I know men who served and they're very anxious, don't want to talk at all about their service—and I don't expect these men still in hospital to talk much either, even if this is an interview," Edith explained. "I just want to follow up and see where we've gone with the care for them; I don't think most people understand what they've been through."_

_"Of course, darling, if you insist. I'm always available should you need another subject for the piece," Michael said, grinning widely._

_Edith kissed him. "I know you are here, if I need you."_

_Michael observed her as she bent back over her paper and penned something. "You really do care about this particular column, don't you? I mean, you're normally quite passionate, but there's something different about this one—more personal, perhaps?"_

_Edith swallowed hard, stared at her paper for fear she'd been discovered at something secret. When she peered up at Michael, he saw the tears in her eyes. "I just know you don't care to hear about…him…"_

_"Him?" Michael thought for a moment and realized whom she meant. "Strallan? What does he—ah, I see. His injuries and such. Edith, the man left you—hurt you immeasurably—and I will never forgive him for that, but I don't like seeing you hurt over doing a story—surely, someone else can write and follow up—"_

_"No, it is personal. I want to do it. I just—forgive me, if I somehow…am seeking justice, so to speak—for Anthony and other men like him who came back so…devastated. He never would even talk to me about it; a taboo subject, really, just completely froze when it was mentioned or brushed it aside. He wasn't the same, Michael, and I still believe the way he left me had something to do with his mindset, his guilt, or something that happened to affect his confidence or esteem, his entire life shattered—"_

_"Edith, darling, you don't need to explain. I know you'll do your best and I look forward to the final result. We're in the business of news and truth, after all, and sometimes those truths are…well, heartbreaking, aren't they, for the men and for us?" _

Michael sat up in the bed and chuckled now, a bitter, sharp sound, and had a smirk on his face. _Of course. Guilt—that was it—guilt in his tone. Perhaps, Strallan, there's more to you than just a crippled old gent with a heart for our Edith. You've ruined my plans, my life._ Michael stood and went to glance at himself in the small, oval mirror hung near the window. _I shall find out what I—and perhaps everyone in Yorkshire—needs to know about you, Sir Anthony. This isn't revenge, per se—just…making a decision with a better understanding of the facts. I may not win her back, but she'll know better what sort of man she's chosen…no, settled for…_

Michael snatched his coat from the bed and drove to York to send a telegram, a request of sorts, given that he'd left London in such a hurry so as not to have completed the research that would assist him in making his case for Edith.

"I want this sent immediately, please."

"Of course, Mr. Gregson."

"The return post should be expedited to me, please. Here's where I'm staying and I want immediate notification, please—immediate."

The operator nodded enthusiastically, putting Michael's money in the register. "Of course. Right away."

As Michael departed, the operator read and sent the transmitted message:

_Mr. Thomas Sangster—Special Investigations,_

_Emergency Request: Complete service record of one Major Anthony Strallan of Yorkshire. Everything. Files. Photographs. Send reply immediately. _

_Michael Gregson_

* * *

Edith came downstairs and joined Anthony in the library before luncheon and they spent the afternoon there, eating and reading, with Edith relaxed and Anthony wishing to keep her that way. The healing after her injuries and her temperament were of utmost importance to him. Anthony Strallan knew too well, given Maud's four miscarriages prior to hers and their son's deaths, how losing a child during a pregnancy could derail a woman's mental health, leave one vulnerable to darkness in moods and thoughts. Because of his knowledge and love for her, Anthony chose not to tell Edith of Michael's parting threat.

Anthony asked no questions of her and her discussion with Michael; he knew what he needed to know: Edith chose him and Locksley. Edith, too, said little about her fiery and painful argument with her former lover. Only once in a while, as they read or wrote, did they look up to see the other watching—and they shared shy smiles in the comfortable silence.

Mrs. Brandon cooked beautiful beef tenderloin for dinner, claimed it best for Edith's health, and then finished it off with Anthony's favorite Apple Charlotte for dessert. "A proper welcome home for you, Sir," she'd said, grinning at her master with obvious affection.

Anthony blushed. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. A rather sweet welcome home it is, too."

Edith and Anthony's eyes met across the make-shift dinner table in the library by the hearth. Edith laughed for a moment. "I do hope it's the right amount of salt as opposed to the raspberry that—"

Anthony laughed, then smiled gently and patted Mrs. Brandon's arm, a look of confusion on the heart-shaped face of the older woman. "It's quite all right, Mrs. Brandon—Edith is only making a joke regarding my dinner at Downton years ago. I know this will be delicious."

The cook gave him a hesitant-albeit-still confused smile and nod and left them alone once more.

"One of the best and worst nights of my life," Edith said, giving him a sad, wistful smile.

Anthony recalled the evening and how it ended—with him in the clutches of Mary's manipulative plan rather than talking with Edith as he'd spent the dinner doing prior to the pudding incident.

"Thank goodness she said 'no' to the ride in my car…"

"If only she'd stayed away at the garden party," Edith muttered.

"If only I'd—well, we shouldn't dwell on the 'if only' moments," Anthony said, regret consuming him as the war and the altar came to mind.

They finished their dessert and Clara and Mrs. Brandon cleared the dishes away. Still sipping a bit of wine, they took their places together on the sofa, the fire warming them as Edith laid her head on Anthony's shoulder, her still-bruised fingers tenderly stroking his left hand as she held it.

"How are you feeling?"

"Still tired, despite my rest and lazy day."

"Read a while or shall I see you to bed?"

Edith moved and feather kissed the nape of his neck. "A few more minutes and then I would love for you to see me to bed."

"Whatever you wish."

"I won't need Clara's help to change into my night gown from now on—if that's all right with you?"

"Of course it's all right. I'm glad you're feeling well enough to do so on your own."

"I think I am, but if I do need help I thought you…" She let him fill in the rest, the thoughts and the heat between them palpable.

Anthony closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper. "Of course—whatever you need, sweet one."

That night, the two of them moved in the shadows of the corridor to their room and, for the first time, his hand trembling, Anthony helped his wife undress. The blouse slipped over her head revealed the impact from the explosion—the deepest of the bruising along her right side and her abdomen. Edith waited for his reaction, listened for a response as she stared at the rug by their bed. When she heard none, she looked up and saw his tear-filled blue eyes. Anthony's hand touched her shoulder, lightly traced the line of green and bluish contusions from her breast to her side, veneration in every movement, until he knelt before her to see the marked discoloration at her middle and her hip and pelvis and the surgical scars left from her loss..._their loss_… He looked up to her, but her eyes were closed.

"We're both ruined," she choked.

"No," Anthony whispered. He embraced her with his left arm and, delicately, performing the most sacred of acts, kissed the still-puckered and glaring red lines of marred skin across her middle. "We'll heal from this—"

"But we won't—we can't have a family—"

"Edith, you are my family," he insisted, fought against the tears falling from her eyes. "Physically, you're hurt, but we will heal and we will be better—together."

"I know you want more—need more—an heir—"

"Sshh…I don't give a damn about an heir, darling, I want you. I want you better. Let's get you into bed to rest, hmm?"

Edith's emotions peaked and she went limp against him, her hands in his hair, and he felt her weight lean into him. Anthony helped her with the removal of her skirt, the dressing of her nightgown, and led her to bed. Once he tucked her in, her face still damp with tears, he kissed her forehead tenderly and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer until he had to sit on the bed next to her to regain his balance.

"There, there, sweet—"

"Are you coming to bed with me?"

"Yes, I am."

"This day! These weeks…I just want you—I need you to hold me," she sobbed.

Anthony rubbed her back, felt the strain of muscles along her spine as she gripped him tighter. "I can think of nothing better—let me just change and I'll be right back, all right?"

Edith finally relinquished her grip and he smiled at her, reassuringly.

Anthony went to the master bathroom and changed, walked to what was now his side of the bed, and climbed in beside her. In the softest of movements, he slid behind her and she took his hand, moved flush against him, and silent tears fell as Anthony kissed her shoulder and neck, whispered to her until she finally fell asleep…

* * *

After two days spent in the most restful fashion and with Edith choosing to stay in their bedroom the majority of the time, Anthony called and confirmed the appointment with Dr. Clarkson. Stewart helped Edith to the car and they drove into the village, with Edith gripping Anthony's hand tightly and enduring each bump and jouncing of the vehicle with gritted teeth and audible gasps of pain.

"I'll wait for you here, darling," Anthony said, kissing her cheek.

Edith only nodded with trepidation.

"It'll be all right, I promise. No matter what happens or what he says." Anthony pulled her to him and Edith cried, buried her face against the folds of his coat. "I love you—it'll be all right." He leaned away and handed her his handkerchief.

"I love you," she said, but barely lifted her eyes to meet his before turning to walk in to the examination room of Dr. Clarkson's office.

Inside the room, Edith anxiously undressed and then tolerated the probing-but-gentle hands of Dr. Clarkson as he examined her broken body. Apologies were murmured each time he elicited a painful gasp or exclamation from her, and then she slowly redressed herself and waited while the doctor brought Anthony in.

Seated beside his wife, Anthony took her hand in his and they listened as Dr. Clarkson patiently explained the trauma, the consequences. Tears again.

"The most important point is this: there's so much we still don't know."

Anthony consoled his wife, but let her stay in the office while he went to ask Stewart to bring the car around. Once outside the main door, however, Clarkson took his elbow. "Sir Anthony, it may be some time before normal marital activities can resume—"

Anthony waited, raised a questioning brow.

"At least a few more weeks for the physical body to heal, if not longer. Mentally though, it all depends on how she feels. You know as well as I that this sort of…tragedy can harm one's state of mind indefinitely and even permanently, even—"

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson." Anthony cut him off, unwilling to let the memories of Maud resurface in that moment.

"Yes, well, I am sorry. Please do let me know if I can do anything more. I'm so sorry for what she's been through."

Anthony replied only with a contrite smile and left to find Stewart. The ride home to Locksley was painfully quiet. Both ached with unrequited hope, yet found none in the admittedly-expected words of the doctor, and the Strallan home seemed clouded with shadows and grief again. Edith slept so soundly that night from the sheer exhaustion and depression overtaking her, she failed to wake when Anthony started from a hellish nightmare—Gregson appearing in the midst of the fragmented war images. For fear of hurting her in a violent waking, he chose instead to sleep in the chair by the hearth, drifting into and out of consciousness, watching over his Edith and wishing their new beginning meant the absolute wiping away of all the past instead of just…this long wait in the shadows…

* * *

Thomas Sangster, a moderately corrupt and cunning officer in his mid-40's, stooped from drink and overindulgence, tipped the telegram messenger and sat heavily in the chair behind his wooden desk. He pulled the chain on the lamp nearby. Within moments of reading Michael Gregson's request, the investigator was on the telephone with an equally deviant friend of his from the intelligence service…within hours a confidential file complete with highly classified papers and photographs was copied and returned secretly…and the copy sent by expedited post to Yorkshire.

* * *

Michael sipped the bitter coffee in his room the following evening and read the history of Major Anthony Strallan's service of king and country. _Admirable_, Michael thought_. _Until he found the file he'd been looking for: a report tucked in the back with certain lines deleted, whited-out completely and quite purposefully. He tried to make out the words, but the file deletion work was too good. He stared at the accompanying photograph. Major Strallan in profile, completely unaware and with his back to the potentially hidden camera—_it appears to be a battlefield of some kind_, and a pistol—still-smoldering with a mist of smoke at the barrel—in his right hand—_clearly before the time he was shot and the photo, my God, the instant the shooting happened to see the smoke._ Then, Michael's eyes opened wider when he realized what lay at Strallan's feet: two of his own men—_British uniforms_—with eyes open to the sky and bullet holes in their heads and necks…


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing!_

* * *

**Part 1**

Michael Gregson considered the photograph, examined it as closely as the lighting in his room allowed. Major Strallan clearly fired a shot—at least one or more. And it was definitely Anthony Strallan in the gray tones of the photograph; there would be no way for the man to deny it was him. Robert Crawley and his daughter deserved to see this side of the gentleman; the authentic records came directly from the intelligence service, and Michael—convinced of the right thing to do—decided to tailor his plan to meet Edith's father in person, with nothing to hide and only the truth to be revealed. Michael spent another two days at the inn obtaining a second sealed copy of the file from Sangster before sending his invitation to Locksley.

* * *

A post arrived the following morning at Locksley as Anthony sipped coffee downstairs and Edith slept late in their room. Anthony opened the large envelope and a small white letter slipped out first.

_Major Strallan,_

_Given the recent revelations, perhaps you and I should talk with the Crawley family this morning. I'll be there at 10am._

Anthony almost dropped the cup and it clattered onto the table as he read the signature: _Michael Gregson_. Anthony tore the remainder of the envelope along the seam and the pages of the previously sealed file plunged forth and cascaded to form a collage of black type and classified stamped materials in front of him: Anthony in uniform; Anthony at the strategy table in 1914; white papers with blacked-out lines and vice versa; typed files, codes, letters. His good hand hurried to sift through the uneven sheaf of what remained, desperately digging further. The photo of his rescue—the expertly edited, purposely incomplete documentation with few details regarding his injuries and interrogations. The murder scene.

"Oh God," he whispered. "Stewart!"

Stewart ran to the dining area, alarmed at Anthony's heightened, tense tone. "Yes, Sir?"

Anthony's hand was still quivering as he stood and dropped his napkin on the plate in front of him and buried the final photo beneath the rest of the stack. "What time—yes, it's just now 9:30am. We must hurry—bring the car—no! You stay here—"

"Sir, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Get young George from the Miller's farm—hurry—we'll take the newer Rolls. I want you to stay here with Edith in case Gregson has something else planned. I need to go to Downton immediately."

Stewart left the room without another word and called to the nearest farm house on the estate to retrieve George Miller, a young man already schooled at driving, who arrived within a few minutes.

In his rush to get ready, Anthony attempted to call Downton and warn Robert, but he gave up after only one try when the phone went unanswered and George arrived so quickly. Besides, Anthony knew Gregson would settle for nothing less than an outright confrontation.

As Anthony made his way to the car, he stopped and placed his hand on Stewart's shoulder. "Watch over her, Stewart, but do not tell her where I am nor what has happened. I'll take care of this. I don't want her worrying."

"Of course, Sir. Do be careful," Stewart implored.

Anthony nodded. "Let's go, George—hurry."

* * *

Edith woke and dressed in haste, aware subconsciously of the hushed flurry of activity downstairs, but arrived to only a pale and quiet Stewart. "Stewart? Good morning. Is everything all right?"

"Good morning, milady." Stewart's clipped reply felt odd to him, as though he were keeping everything in check in order to fulfill Anthony's command. Stewart realized his mistake as Edith sat at the dining table and saw where Anthony's place-and the contents of the envelope-had yet to be cleared.

"Where's Anthony?" Her eyes stayed on the files and Edith, sensing something odd, rose from her place and moved to her husband's now-vacant one, even as Stewart tried to gather everything still there before she could determine the substance of it.

Edith put a hand on Stewart's arm. "Please don't. I know something's wrong. Where is he? Why didn't he let me know or wake me? I know he's busy, but—" She stopped, watched, with a sense of foreboding, the silent man standing by her.

Stewart relented, glanced away from her, unable to voice his disloyalty.

"Stewart?" Edith took the papers from his hands and her eyes swept over them, but didn't take anything in and instead focused once more on the valet's blanched features.

"He was called away early, milady." Stewart stepped back from the table to allow Edith to sit where Anthony had eaten just minutes before.

Edith touched the cup. "It's still warm—he hasn't been gone long." She slid the papers and spread them out in front of her, her eyes taking the print and photographs in simultaneously. "What is this…" she murmured.

"Milady, wouldn't you care for some breakfast? I can have Mrs. Brandon—"

"Oh my God…" Edith picked the photo up. In it, Anthony lay unconscious, carried by two other men. Anthony's entire right side of his tunic ripped open with bloodstains and his body bruised, face bearded and beaten and a large bandage covering his shoulder and chest. Tears welled in her eyes as she studied the photo and her fingers touched her lips. Edith searched through the rest of what lay in front of her, mesmerized by what she saw… "Anthony—Stewart, what is this?"

When the valet didn't answer, only looked at her apologetically, Edith turned back to delving through the files, her hands moving frantically to find more. She did—and exhaled so sharply Stewart thought she'd felt a physical blow and reached for her.

"Milady?"

Edith cried. "What is this? These are—these are British soldiers and Anthony—why is he holding a…Stewart, why is he holding a gun?" She brought the photograph closer still. "A gun that was just fired? Did he kill these men?" She shook her head. "No, no, he couldn't…Stewart!"

The valet sat down beside her at the table and took the photograph. "I'm sure you know, milady, that it isn't what it appears—you know him. This isn't—"

"Where did this come from? Why is it here now—it arrived by post?" Edith rifled again through the papers until she found the note. "Michael."

Stewart spoke as Edith's eyes pored over the brief invitation and her lips moved with the words. "Sir Anthony knew he needed to be there, so he left immediately for Downton."

Edith gathered the papers and shoved them back in the envelope, and rose, carefully with a hand on the table. "And we shall be there, too. You're driving me and we're going to Downton—we'll use whichever of the two cars he didn't take. I'm not letting Anthony do this alone, no matter what…no matter what he did…I'm certain there's a very good explanation—God knows what Michael's doing. Hurry, Stewart, please."

* * *

Robert Crawley adjusted his posture, a fist on his hip as he stared at the plans Tom had placed on his desk. "Are you certain that's what it will take?"

Tom sighed again and instead of responding, took a calm sip of tea. He'd lost his temper enough times in the previous weeks regarding the season's plans for the estate and this morning would not be another. "Yes."

Robert looked open-mouthed at Tom, waited a long beat for some additional piece of information or comment or reasoning. "Well," he threw his hand in the air, "there you go. I trust you, Tom—I do." He sat with a thud in his leather-backed chair in the library and he and Tom shared begrudging-but warm-grins at one another just as Carson entered.

"Mr. Michael Gregson," Carson announced.

"What?" Robert shot from his chair. Tom came around to the front side of the desk, but managed to hold himself back when he saw Michael's head bowed, an open hand in the air in surrender and an envelope in the other.

"Lord Grantham, please—I only ask for a moment of your time," Michael began.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to show your face here!" Robert shouted, joining Tom at the front of the desk.

Gregson flushed. "I do realize it's a bit unorthodox, but it's for Edith's well-being and her safety—"

"You can't be serious!" Tom started for the editor, who began to cower towards the door where Carson still stood waiting.

Robert stepped in front of Tom and held up a hand before he growled through gritted teeth. "What the hell do you want? You obviously know nothing about my daughter and what's best for her!"

Michael tried to give a humble smile—an appeasement offer—and shook his head. "I'm here for the very reason that I love her and only want to see her…happy—"

Tom lunged at Gregson again. "Happy? You dirty—"

"Tom!" Robert pushed Tom back slightly, obstructing his son-in-law. "Let him finish and then he's gone from here forever—isn't that right, Gregson?"

Michael nodded, tried to control his nerves as he backed away from the angry Irishman barely being kept at bay. "Yes, I will. I'm only here to apologize—profusely—apologize for my actions. I was wrong to do…to treat Edith as I did before I was truly free to do so—" He glanced at Tom whose jaw and fists remained clenched. "I love her—I do—"

"Get to the point, Gregson, and get out of my home!" Robert bellowed.

Michael steeled himself, his heart still palpitating wildly at the rush of adrenaline he felt since stepping foot inside the grand home. "I'm worried—for Edith—"

"Now you're worried for her? Now!" Tom snarled.

"I'm worried because of the man she's married to…because I don't think he's what he seems to be!" Michael charged.

Tom and Robert registered the shock Michael had hoped to see, particularly in the Crawley patriarch. Robert glared at Michael. "You must be joking—I've known Anthony Strallan practically my entire life and I know precisely what sort of man he is—how dare you insinuate—!"

"A liar and coward, you mean—he did, after all, leave Edith at the altar—"

"And you know very little of the truth behind that—now, get on with it, Gregson!"

"I have a file here—a friend sent it to me. I just—please believe me—I wish to do no harm here. I truly only want what's best for Edith and I'm worried for the man she's…chosen." With the last word, Michael tasted the bile in the back of his throat. "Honestly, I'm a professional journalist and I worried for her given his past erratic and hurtful behavior—leaving her before and such," Michael said, but when he saw Robert's head tilt with impatience at him for once again proceeding to judge out of ignorance, knowing few of the facts, and he tried to finish. "So I took it upon myself to—"

"Sir Anthony Strallan, milord," Carson announced.

"Ah, the man in question," Gregson said, turning to the door to see the ashen-faced, blonde gentleman appear.

Anthony stopped a meter or so from his adversary. "What do you think you are doing here at Downton, Mr. Gregson? A final ploy to win back the woman who doesn't want you and can't trust you? I'm certain she told you as much the other day at our estate. You should have left Yorkshire then."

Michael didn't hesitate, but moved closer to Robert's desk, carefully avoiding touching both Robert and Tom and moving between them, he spilled the entire file at once—plucked the exact photo he wanted and laid it on top. With all in place, he turned to face Anthony, still a short distance from the other men and the large, mahogany desk. Eyebrows arched, Michael attempted a sympathetic smile. "_Major _Strallan?"

Robert and Tom squinted at the photograph until Robert snatched it up and held it closer, then yanked the lamp chain impatiently to see it better with light. "What is going on here? From the war?"

"1917," Anthony whispered, his eyes never leaving Gregson.

Michael felt the intensity of his look, the disdain and anguish in Anthony's gaze, and looked away towards the windows of the Downton library awaiting Robert's response to the image before him.

"These are—Anthony? These are dead soldiers…_British_ soldiers—" Robert spoke the words in a solemn tone, one of utter disbelief and bewilderment with a quick glance to Gregson and then a softer look to Anthony. "But I'm certain there's good reason—Anthony?"

Tom spun to Anthony. "I'm sure it's not what it seems!" When Anthony didn't speak immediately to defend himself, Tom turned back to Robert.

Robert, though, spoke evenly in Anthony's defense. "Absolutely not—and I know between the two of you, Gregson, you're the man I _don't_ trust.

Michael smarted. "It's a genuine photograph—taken directly from the original file and I can have that verified—"

"It most definitely is authentic." At Anthony's confession, all eyes turned once more to him until Edith's scream shattered the silence.

"Anthony!" Edith dashed through the door—moving deliberately and holding her side—with Stewart just behind her. She came to stand by her husband, took his hand in hers and looked up at him.

Anthony's eyes remained on Gregson. "Why did you do this?"

Michael took a step back from Anthony's gelid stare. "I just—was concerned for Edith. I love her!" Michael insisted, risked a brief glimpse of her as she stood near Anthony. "She needs to know who you really are—that's all. I just wanted the truth, honestly. I came across this—"

"Just happened upon a classified file?" Tom accused.

"I felt that Edith deserved the truth! You do, darling, before you really make up your mind; you deserve to know us both and he's not been honest with you about his service—"

"I know him well enough to know there is surely a misunderstanding here and that you're up to something—I can't trust you, Michael!"

"He shot his own men, Edith! Can you tell me that you really trust him given this photograph and his plain admission that it's real? Can you? He never told you any of this—what else is there he's hiding, darling?" He pleaded, his eyes on Edith as his hand gestured back at Anthony, begging Edith to believe him.

Robert and Tom watched Edith, but her eyes looked past Michael and back up to Anthony. Once Michael sensed Edith's attention beyond him, he too turned to face Anthony.

"They weren't British," Anthony began, with the softest timbre Edith had ever heard from him in front of others.

Edith took the photograph from Robert's hand, incredibly gentle in the confiscation of her husband's violent image. Her eyes studied it, the surroundings and landscape behind his profile and the bodies, and, in an instant, she saw it…

Anthony's unsteady, halting voice unfolded the story and the other four maintained their rapt attention, barely breathing in the tension of the moment as he spoke. "What I can tell you is that my partner committed an act of treachery and treason—he's not in the frame…we were to meet there, and, suspecting his betrayal, I came prepared to…arrest him or stop him somehow or…worse, if it came to it." Anthony took a breath, his eyes far away and voice hollow. "I arrived to find the two bodies and…he tried to talk his way out of it, whitewash it, as it were, and then he admitted they were Germans he'd used for our intelligence, but he knew I was aware of plans I'd not shared with him and knew the Germans wanted that information. I was too late in firing when I saw his gun—which is when the photograph was taken—a moment later, I presume, the man who took the photograph…my partner's new German consort…shot me…"

At the words, Edith exhaled and her eyes went to Anthony again.

"My partner and the other Germans, also conveniently out of this camera frame…" Anthony swallowed, his body beginning to exhibit tremors. "Of course, once I was shot, I couldn't really defend myself and they took me captive...to try and gain the final bits of information they knew I possessed…held me there for…quite some time." Anthony looked to his wife and saw the recognition on her face from the black and white print—and the tears forming. "Edith?"

She nodded and pointed to the field in the photograph behind him and the tiny gray structure…_the prison_… "They held you here…" She finished for him.

"And you were with me," Anthony whispered.

Robert and Tom exchanged sober looks. Gregson had begun backing away, realizing the truth he sought was so far from what he had originally surmised that simply retreating became his only option…no life as he'd had before and no Edith…until he bumped into a slightly taller Stewart who thwarted his early departure.

Robert sensed the breaking point between the couple and held up a hand. "I think we've heard enough," he said. "Carson, will you please—"

"No," Anthony intervened. "Mr. Gregson, you should know the rest. You're so keen on obtaining the full truth for Edith—the one she deserves, correct? Or don't you have some clever _journalist _questions to pose to me yet to unearth what's left?"

Michael's eyes shifted nervously, and he wet his lips slowly before inquiring, "Well, why take the photograph at all then if it had so little to do with the act committed?"

"It seems my partner wished to make certain that I was seen as the double-agent and not he and this was evidence for the framing. As soon as he had this 'proof,' he wrote and sent a report detailing my alleged betrayal and, upon my inadvertent rescue from the torture I endured at the hands of said partner's German cohorts, my entire record and reputation were called into question and I was left to defend myself in hospital. This wasn't an obvious case of an officer executing men for treason or cowardice on the battle lines captured in this photograph that proved so particularly damning, and everything—_everything I'd done in service—_came into question. Do you know, Mr. Gregson, what it's like to endure physical torture on behalf of your king and country only to return and find yourself being treated like the enemy at home as well?" Anthony paused; Edith leaned closer to him. "Of course not—and you wouldn't know because I made certain those details of torture were deleted from the final accounts—omitted entirely…just as I wish I could do in reality."

Michael only winced and looked away, overcome with cowardice in the face of Anthony and the Crawley family.

Tom spoke first then, "How did you convince—or did you convince them at all you weren't—?"

Anthony blinked and looked to Tom to answer in at once a soft and caustic tone. "I never let them know the final maneuvers—the ones they so desperately wished to…extract from me. When I was finally able to share that information with my superiors in hospital, I was released from inquiry and cleared of any further suspicion…and left to linger with only my other injuries…"

A moment passed before Stewart quietly asserted, "And his O.B.E."

Robert and Tom gaped at Anthony, as did Michael. Anthony merely let his gaze drop to the grain of the wood floor, an embarrassing heat felt at his neck and cheeks.

"My sincere apologies for the conclusions I reached," Michael said. "I truly only wished for this to be—"

"A way for you to dishonor me and 'win' her back by proving my unworthiness."

Gregson stepped past Stewart. "Well, yes, I'm afraid that's what it has turned into and, for that botched effort, I am sorry. The reports were incomplete and I had no idea—"

"None. They're classified for a reason, Mr. Gregson. Given the wretched details, no one should have to know what happened."

"I clearly had no idea what was involved. I only wished to protect Edith, to love her despite my utter failures. Lord Grantham—Edith, I…I am sorry—for it all." Michael started to reach for Edith's hand, but she recoiled and moved almost completely behind Anthony, effectively allowing her husband to deter Michael from any further efforts.

Tom smiled at his brother-in-law, and then he moved with intent towards Gregson, who had already begun reversing towards the door where Carson still stood—rigid with propriety, seething beneath the otherwise placid surface at Gregson's scheme. Stewart took Gregson by one arm and stayed in step with him.

"Let's go, Mr. Gregson—I believe you know the way out, but we'll escort you anyway to make sure," Tom said, gripping Michael's other arm and propelling him all the more quickly to the door.


End file.
